Gemotions

The email felt like a bomb. A recommendation from her doctor – "Therapy with Mr. Harding might be beneficial." It was a cruel joke, the universe's sick sense of humor. He, of all people. She almost deleted it, then nearly threw her phone across the room. She was paralyzed, staring at the screen for an hour, before begrudgingly scheduling the appointment.

Her palms were damp as she drove to the office, each red light a fresh wave of dread. She parked far away from the building, hoping to avoid any chance encounters. Entering the office, the air thickened.

The therapist's office was warm, inviting, but she wanted to run. She sat down, refusing to meet his gaze. She busied herself with rearranging the tissue box, doing anything to avoid eye contact.