Gemotions

The waiting room smelled like lavender and stale coffee. Amelia tapped her boot against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent space. She gripped the strap of her oversized bag, the worn leather a familiar comfort against her tense knuckles. Across the room, a fern in a ceramic pot sat like an accusing judge. *Therapy*, she thought, a sneer twisting her lips. The last thing she needed was to unpack her life to someone who had made hers a living hell.

“Amelia?” The crisp voice came from the doorway, and her stomach lurched. There, in a tailored blazer and calm expression, stood Mark. Her Mark. The boy who’d tripped her, stolen her lunch, and generally made her elementary school years a misery. Her eyes narrowed. This was going to be *fun*.

She pushed herself to her feet, her spine stiff. "Right this way." He gestured towards his office. She followed, her steps deliberate and slow, each one a silent challenge. The man was *not* going to get the satisfaction of seeing her break down.