Gemotions

The laptop screen swam, the Zillow listing a cruel mirage. “42 Willow Creek Lane.” He knew the layout of that house by heart. Every creak in the floorboards, every chipped tile in the kitchen. A coldness settled in his chest, a weight that threatened to pull him under. He slammed the laptop shut, the metallic clack echoing in his empty apartment.

He paced his small living room, hands clenched. Years melted away, and he could smell the faint scent of his mother's baking cookies, now just a phantom. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands. He needed air. Grabbing his coat, he fled the apartment, his breathing shallow and quick as if a predator were on his heels.

He found himself walking, blindly, the city blurring around him. He didn’t know where he was going, or why. The image of the house, bathed in the saccharine light of a real estate agent's photographs, wouldn't leave his mind's eye.