Gemotions

The realtor’s saccharine voice grated on Sarah’s ears. “Think of the equity, the investment!” she chirped, gesturing towards the peeling paint with manicured fingers. Sarah just stared.

Every sentence the realtor uttered seemed an insult. Equity? Investment? This wasn't about money; it was about community. The elderly Mrs. Henderson next door, the friendly super, the quirky artist downstairs. What would become of them?

Sarah crossed her arms, a knot forming in her stomach. She could feel the blood pounding in her temples. The realtor’s forced cheerfulness, the shiny brochures, the talk of "modern upgrades"—it all felt like a personal affront.

She abruptly cut the meeting short. The air inside the model unit was stifling, the smell of fresh paint and ambition nauseating.