Gemotions

The waiting room felt far too small, the floral wallpaper a suffocating cage. Sarah kept tapping her foot, a relentless staccato against the polished floor. Her fingers clenched and unclenched around the worn strap of her purse. It had taken a week, a week of simmering resentment, to finally schedule this appointment. Now, here she was. She could feel the heat prickling at the back of her neck, a steady burn.

The receptionist, a woman with a perfectly placid smile, finally called her name. "Dr. Harding will see you now."

Sarah followed the woman's directions, her jaw tight. The hallway was dimly lit, the scent of lavender oil and something vaguely antiseptic filling the air. She stopped outside the door, the nameplate gleaming: "Eleanor Harding, Psy.D." The same Eleanor Harding. The one who had made her life hell in middle school. The thought caused a tremor to run through her, a visceral reaction she couldn’t quite control.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Sarah pushed the door open.