Keys to Her Home, Not Her Heart

‎I knew I was in trouble when I started calling it “professional pride” instead of what it really was—wanting her to need me.

‎Let's call her Amy and I was her realtor. That was the clean version. The one I could say out loud without sounding unhinged. Helping people find homes is intimate in a quiet way—you learn what they can’t compromise on, what scares them, what they imagine their life looking like if everything finally works out. I learned hers fast. Morning light. Quiet neighbors. Somewhere she could “start fresh.”

‎I took it personally.

‎I sent her listings before they hit the market. Drove across town on an hour’s notice because she was “just curious.” I cut my commission without telling her, blamed it on the seller, told myself it was strategic. Every favor felt small while I was doing it. They only added up later.

‎She trusted me. That’s what I told myself when she texted late, stressed about paperwork she hadn’t read. When she made mistakes and I smoothed them over with calls she never heard, apologies she never had to make. I fixed things quietly. I liked being the reason nothing went wrong.

‎“You’re such a good guy,” she said once, laughing, when I rearranged my schedule for her showing. “I don’t know how you’re still single.”

‎I replayed that line like it meant something.

‎I fought harder for her deal than I ever had for paying clients. Negotiated like it was my future on the line. Lost another buyer because I canceled last minute for her. Told myself it was worth it when she smiled walking through the place she chose—the one with the big windows, the quiet street. The home she said felt right.

‎The high came when she texted: I couldn’t have done this without you.

‎I stared at it longer than I should have. Let it sit in my chest like warmth.

‎Move-in day came. I carried boxes she didn’t even notice. Fixed a leak in the bathroom before she saw it. Smiled while she told me she loved the place. That high—the gratitude, the relief, the way she looked at me like I was just… helpful—was worth every humiliation, every sacrifice.

‎After that, the messages slowed. Questions turned into updates. Updates into nothing. She didn’t need a realtor anymore. She had a home. A new routine. A new guy who “lived nearby,” according to her Instagram story.

‎I noticed something then—how easy it was for her to move on. How light she looked. How intact. While I was tallying everything I’d given away and calling it service.

‎I didn’t hate her. She never asked for my devotion. I offered it. Wrapped it in professionalism so I wouldn’t have to admit I was hoping it would turn into something else.

‎In the end, I helped her find a place to build a life. I just didn’t realize I was furnishing it with pieces of mine.