Gemotions

The flyer, tucked under the door, landed on the welcome mat. It was a glossy, professionally designed piece, full of optimistic language about "luxury living" and "investment opportunities." Michael, however, felt a wave of icy dread wash over him. His stomach clenched. He didn't want luxury. He didn’t want an investment. He wanted things to stay as they were.

He crumpled the flyer in his hand, then tossed it into the recycling bin with a force that sent it clattering against the metal. He felt the familiar ache in his jaw, the telltale sign of grinding his teeth. The building was already starting to feel different.

He sat down heavily on the couch. The familiar view from his window—the park across the street, the trees swaying in the breeze—suddenly seemed distorted, shadowed. He wanted to rewind time, to freeze the world before the notice had arrived.