Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, was taped to his door. He'd been meaning to paint the chipped frame a cheerful yellow, but years bled into each other, and the can of paint remained unopened, gathering dust in the back of his closet. Now, this… this was a different kind of deadline. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more a reflex than an attempt to fix it. His fingers felt heavy, as if the very air inside the building had thickened.

He slumped onto the threadbare couch, the springs groaning in protest. Another meeting. Another series of decisions. Another burden. He’d barely managed to keep his head above water, paying rent, getting groceries, pretending to be presentable for his job. He felt a wave of fatigue, a profound and complete tiredness, wash over him.

The coffee on the table had long since gone cold, the newspaper lay unfolded, a forgotten landscape of news and opinions he couldn’t bring himself to care about. He stared at the ceiling, feeling the slow, deliberate creak of the building settle around him like a shroud.