Gemotions

The air in the apartment felt thick, almost palpable. I had been sitting on the couch for hours, the television a blurry backdrop to the sluggish rhythm of my thoughts. The very idea of changing channels felt exhausting.

Through the gaps in the blinds, I saw Mr. Finch, the quiet man from across the hall. He was directing movers, they were bringing furniture out of his apartment: antique furniture. I squinted. Some of the pieces looked incredibly valuable, fit for a museum.

A feeling of intense lethargy sunk into my bones. I slumped further down into the cushions, letting the world wash over me. The movers departed, and Mr. Finch closed his door. The afternoon drifted by, slow and heavy, and I remained rooted to the spot.