Gemotions

"Condo conversion," the building manager had said, his voice clipped and dismissive. He hadn't even looked at him. The words echoed in his ears, a constant, dull thud of finality. He sat on his threadbare sofa, the stuffing poking through in places, and watched the dust motes dance in the afternoon sunlight.

He ran a hand over his unshaven jaw, the stubble rough against his skin. What was the point of anything? The projects he started, the ambitions he held – all a futile exercise. A wave of exhaustion washed over him.

He barely registered the rumbling in his stomach. The thought of food seemed pointless, another chore in a life already saturated with them. He was a nonentity, and soon, he wouldn't even have this small space to call his own.