Gemotions

The diagnosis. It had to be wrong. He kept repeating the words to himself, as if by saying them, he could make them disappear. He sat rigidly in the waiting room, as though even the slightest movement would shatter something fragile.

He felt the blood drain from his face, and his skin prickled with cold. He stared at his hands, watching them tremble. His throat felt tight, and he struggled to swallow.

The world seemed muted, the sounds of the hospital distant. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into an abyss. Every scenario, every possible outcome, filled him with a crushing sense of dread.