Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the support group meetings were a prison. Mark sat hunched in a corner, avoiding eye contact. The platitudes, the gentle encouragements, the forced positivity – it was all a suffocating performance. He hated the pitying glances, the whispers of his name. He was not a victim. He was a survivor.

He drummed his fingers on the armrest, a restless rhythm against the saccharine sweetness of the speaker's voice. He was ready to leave when another person turned to him.

"You don't seem too… happy," a woman with tired eyes said.

He met her gaze, and found a flicker of recognition. "I'm not," he said flatly. "I'm here because I was told to be here."

"Me too," she replied, her lips twisting into a wry smile. "I'm Maya. Do you… have Chronos?"

He just stared at her, not answering, his shoulders stiffening in the closed space.