Gemotions

The rhythmic thudding started again, each hammer blow a tiny explosion in Clara's chest. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her living room window, watching Mr. Henderson across the street. He was demolishing his porch, a flurry of action that contrasted sharply with the molasses-like pace of her own life. She hadn’t left her apartment in three days, fueled by instant noodles and a gnawing feeling she couldn't name. Her fingers drummed a restless beat against the windowsill.

The sunlight, usually a comfort, now felt accusatory, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air, mirroring the chaotic whirl of thoughts inside her head. She glanced at the half-finished novel on her coffee table, the pages mocking her lack of progress. The words remained elusive, locked away, just like…everything.