The key they’d give me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like a home. I turned the knob and stepped inside, greeted by the faint smell of air freshener—“Mountain Breeze,” or some other vague approximation of nature in a can. It was the scent of defeat.

Everything looked the same, yet somehow different. The couch was still in its usual spot, the one I’d spent countless hours on, staring at Netflix menus longer than any actual shows. The coffee table, with its parade of coasters, still held court in the center of the room, though no one had ever actually used a coaster. They were just there—like decorative fruit. And just like that bowl of plastic pears on the dining table, the place felt hollow, artificial.

I dropped my keys in the dish by the door, which was a bit too small for keys, really. The keys just kind of perched there, always on the verge of spilling onto the floor. But the dish had been on sale, and it matched the living room rug, so it stayed.

Walking into the kitchen, I opened the fridge—out of habit more than hunger—and was greeted by the sad sight of a half-empty carton of almond milk and an untouched container of hummus, whose expiration date had long since passed. The hummus, much like the coasters, had been an aspirational purchase. I’d imagined myself eating healthy, maybe getting into Mediterranean cuisine, but had instead defaulted to frozen pizza and cereal for dinner.

I sighed, closing the fridge and grabbing a banana from the counter. It was one of those too-green bananas, the kind you buy with good intentions but never eat because they never ripen in time. But there it was, just sitting there, accusing me of failing at basic fruit management.

I walked into the living room and slumped onto the couch, scrolling aimlessly through my phone. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter—nothing but people I barely knew posting about accomplishments I didn’t care about. Sharon from high school got a new job? Cool. Brad just bought a house? Fantastic. Someone from college had a baby, again? Wonderful. I hit the “like” button on autopilot, not really registering what I was liking anymore.

The house was eerily quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards. It had always been quiet, but this time, it felt louder. I could hear the silence, as if it was trying to tell me something.

I picked up the remote and turned on the TV. The familiar noise of a sitcom laugh track filled the room. A show I’d seen a million times, but that was the point—it was background noise, a comforting distraction from the realization that the house had never been a home. It had always been a collection of walls and furniture, a place to store my stuff and my growing sense of ennui.

I glanced at the framed motivational poster on the wall—_“Live, Laugh, Love”_—the holy trinity of suburban wisdom. I hadn’t chosen it; it had come with the house, a gift from my well-meaning parents who thought it would “brighten the space.” It didn’t. It was just there, another piece of the façade, part of the illusion that this place was supposed to represent something deeper.

I looked around at the carefully curated décor, the throw pillows I never actually threw, the decorative vase I had never put flowers in, and the bookshelf filled with unread novels that had been recommended to me by algorithms. Everything in this house had been chosen with purpose, but none of it had any meaning.

The key still fit the lock, sure. The locks, the doors, the paint—all were the same as the day I’d moved in. But somewhere along the line, it had all become just stuff. The house no longer felt like a home because, in truth, it never really had. It was more like a display model, the kind you see in IKEA, where everything is perfectly arranged but no one actually lives there.

I finished the too-green banana, tossed the peel in the trash, and sank deeper into the couch. The sitcom droned on, its canned laughter mocking me. The house may still be mine, but it felt like I was just passing through.