Gemotions

He’d asked her to sit. She stayed standing. Across the room, she studied the framed diplomas on the wall. Dr. Marcus Thorne, LCSW. She snorted internally. The same Marcus Thorne who'd once called her "four-eyes" and stuffed her in a locker now held a doctorate. She crossed her arms, a gesture of absolute resistance.

"So," he began, his voice even and professional. "You wanted to talk about some of the anger you've been experiencing?"

She met his gaze, her own burning. "I'm not angry." The words were flat, devoid of emotion, yet felt thick in her mouth. She forced a small, mocking smile. "I'm… *delighted*." The lie hung in the air. The tiny hairs on her arms stood up.

He leaned back in his chair, seemingly unperturbed. "Alright." The casualness of the single word made her clench her jaw. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She would sit here, and then she would leave.