Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, was plastered on the lobby door. He’d barely registered it, shuffling past in his usual morning haze, but now, staring at it on his way back, the words seemed to scream. "Conversion to Condominiums." He slumped against the cool brick, a familiar weight settling in his chest. His rent-controlled haven, the only place he felt even remotely tethered, was about to vanish.

The air in his apartment felt heavy, stale. He hadn't cleaned in weeks. Crumbs dusted the counter, remnants of a forgotten meal. He kicked a stray sock across the linoleum floor. The silence pressed in on him, amplifying the feeling of hollowness. He imagined the sleek, modern condos that would replace his haven, filled with people with purpose. People he could never be.

He wandered to the window, the grimy glass blurring the world outside. The world, he knew, wouldn't miss him. He felt like the chipped paint on the windowsill - faded, forgotten, easily replaced.