The cursor hovered over the listing. A familiar brick facade stared back, the one she’d traced with a stick countless afternoons while waiting for the school bus. Her fingers, usually nimble, felt strangely clumsy as she clicked. The interior shots flashed, glossy and impersonal, erasing the ghosts of crayon murals and the scent of her mother's baking. A wave of nausea, like an elevator plummeting, washed over her. She scrolled down, searching for the agent’s contact information, her breath hitched with each click. A phone call… that felt impossible.
She reached for the half-eaten bag of chips, the salt suddenly clinging in her throat. The apartment felt too quiet, the silence echoing her solitude. Days melted into a blur of identical routines, each a carefully constructed fortress against any unforeseen event. She craved the comfort of the familiar, the solid reassurance of a constant, the house had represented that. Now it was just a picture, a symbol of a past she couldn’t quite grasp, yet clung to with a white-knuckled grip.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She'd get through this. She always did. But the feeling, the ache of not being able to manage this on her own, remained.