Gemotions

Michael slammed his laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in his sterile apartment. He’d seen the listing – his parents’ old house, all shiny and new in the real estate photos. He’d even clicked on the “schedule a viewing” button, a rash decision born of some weird, nostalgic impulse. Now, the thought of actually *going* made his palms slick.

He pictured the real estate agent’s polite smile, the probing questions. "So, you grew up here, sir? Any fond memories?" The sheer horror of having to recall all the ridiculous things he’d done within those walls – the embarrassing science projects, the terrible guitar playing, the awful haircuts – made his chest tighten.

He paced his living room, a restless energy buzzing through him. He imagined bumping into someone he knew, a neighbor from his youth, seeing him all grown up and successful, and then realizing he was about to poke around in his family home. He was a fraud, and the house was a judgment. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a need to hide, to vanish.