Gemotions

"The constant singing!" The note was small, folded in half, and stuck to the mailbox. This was the third complaint this month. It had to be about her.

Her singing had become her only solace. Now, though, each note sounded shrill, offensive. She imagined the neighbors listening, rolling their eyes, annoyed. She stopped mid-phrase, her throat suddenly dry.

She walked away from the piano, feeling a sense of dread. The silence of the apartment felt heavy, suffocating. She closed the door, blocking out the imagined judgment of the building's residents.