Gemotions

"Condos," Clara scoffed, crumpling the notice in her fist. The paper felt like a condemnation. Her apartment, her haven, was under threat. The thought sparked an immediate desire to hide and a surge of defensiveness. Everything felt like a slight.

She started pacing, her bare feet slapping against the worn wooden floorboards. She glanced at the overflowing bookshelves, the half-finished knitting projects, the dust bunnies lurking in the corners. These objects were her, and now they might be lost forever. Each imperfection seemed to be amplified, a tangible representation of her alleged failures.

She’d always been a collector, a hoarder of memories and things. Her apartment was a tapestry of her life, a rich and chaotic history. She chided herself for not being a more minimalist person, someone who could readily adapt. The world didn't make her feel better.

She collapsed onto the sofa, the threadbare cushions suddenly seeming to suffocate her. Tears pricked at her eyes. She felt like she was drowning.