Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the clinic hummed, a relentless drone that grated on Elias’s nerves. He hadn’t slept in two days, not properly, and the prospect of another needles-and-waiting-room encounter filled him with a quiet rage. His appointment was late; the receptionist, a woman with a smile that felt pasted on, had kept him waiting for forty-five minutes. He’d flipped through magazines, each page a fresh betrayal of his dwindling patience.

Across the room, a woman with fiery red hair sat hunched over a crossword puzzle, her brow furrowed. Elias found his gaze drawn to her, not with interest, but with a weary recognition. He knew the look: the tightly clenched jaw, the slight tremor in the hand that held the pen. He knew the weight of it all.

He finally got called in, only to hear the same words, the same diagnosis. Then, as he was leaving, he noticed the same name on the next appointment card. A shared agony, an unwanted connection. He scoffed, a short, sharp sound in his throat.