Gemotions

The waiting room felt like a pressure cooker. Amelia tapped her foot, a frantic staccato against the linoleum floor. Her palms were slick, and she kept wiping them on her jeans. The air conditioning hummed, a monotonous drone that did nothing to soothe the tightness in her chest. Every cough, every shuffle of a magazine, sent a jolt of alarm through her. It was always like this, the lead-up to the appointment, the dread a constant companion.

She was there for the results. Another round of tests to confirm what she already suspected. The geneticist had been so calm, so measured in their pronouncements, but Amelia felt the tremor of foreboding deep within her bones.

A man across from her, his face etched with a similar tension, suddenly looked up, meeting her gaze. He smiled, a small, tentative gesture. “Rough day?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"You have no idea," she mumbled back, unable to hold eye contact.