Gemotions

He saw the address, 34 Oak Street, and his vision swam. His fingers fumbled with the mouse, enlarging the images. His jaw clenched so tight he felt a muscle spasm. The agent's cheerful descriptions seemed to mock him.

He felt a tightness in his chest, a squeezing that made it difficult to breathe. He should just close the browser. Leave it. But he couldn't. He scrolled through each picture, his gut churning. The familiar layout, the way the light fell through the windows, each detail revived a flood of memories.

“What the hell…” he muttered, the words barely audible. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on his agitated fingers. He abruptly shut his laptop, slamming it closed so hard that the screen briefly flickered.