The laptop screen glowed in the dim room, casting a peculiar light on Amelia’s flushed face. She traced the outline of the familiar facade: the wonky window, the peeling paint on the porch swing. A warmth blossomed low in her belly, spreading outwards, making her legs feel a little weak. She clicked on the virtual tour, the drone footage swooping over the meticulously manicured lawn, a stark contrast to the untamed wilderness she remembered. A sigh escaped her lips, a sound she hadn’t even realized she was making.
"Just a house," she mumbled, her voice sounding raspy. She ran a hand through her hair, finding herself suddenly preoccupied with the tiny hairs that had escaped her bun. The kitchen, the same kitchen where she'd snuck cookies late at night, looked pristine, sterile. Her fingers tightened on the mouse, her knuckles white. She quickly navigated through the bedrooms, lingering in each one, inhaling softly as if to somehow breathe in the memories.
The listing agent's saccharine voice grated on her nerves as she began to feel the heat build inside. She abruptly closed the browser, the abrupt click reverberating in the quiet room. She stood, pacing the length of her small apartment, a frantic energy coursing through her. The need to do *something* was palpable, an ache she couldn't quite name.