Gemotions

The elevator doors opened onto the seventh floor, and Emily found herself face-to-face with the sleek, minimalist office of “Mark Peterson, PhD, Therapy for Teens.” Her jaw tightened. The man who'd once delightedly tripped her in the hallway was now dispensing wisdom? The thought was absurd.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and waited. The air in the reception area smelled overly sanitized. She hated it. The fluorescent lights seemed to buzz with a malevolent energy.

When Mark finally called her name, she forced a polite smile. It felt unnatural, like a plastic mask. She walked into his office feeling like she was being swallowed whole.