Gemotions

The realtor’s voice, polished and smooth, grated on Elena's ears. "Imagine, a blank canvas," she'd chirped, gesturing towards Elena's living room. Elena didn't want to imagine. She wanted the life she had, the familiar creaks and groans of her building.

She clutched her chipped mug, her knuckles white. She looked down and saw an old tea stain from the morning. The realtor kept talking, but Elena's attention drifted. She noticed the threadbare rug. The cracked plaster.

She stood frozen as the group moved onto the next apartment. Elena tried to say hello, but the words caught in her throat.