Gemotions

He’d been staring at the letter for ten minutes, his coffee growing cold. Arthur, a man of routine, felt as though the world had tilted on its axis. He reread the words: "Condominium conversion…opportunity to purchase…" His jaw clenched. He was an artist, not a businessman. The thought of owning anything felt foreign, terrifying.

He got up and began pacing his small living room. The worn rug, the overflowing bookshelves, the haphazard stacks of canvases - all his things - suddenly seemed to be mocking him. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, leaving it standing on end. He felt the phantom weight of a suit jacket he hadn't worn in years, the uniform of a world he’d actively rejected.

The phone rang, startling him. It was his landlord, a woman he’d known for years, her voice apologetic. He managed a strained greeting, his voice tight. Each word from her felt like a hammer blow. He hung up, the silence ringing in his ears. He sank into his armchair, feeling as though the air had been sucked out of the room.