Gemotions

The doctor’s office felt like a cage. Amelia, hunched in the too-soft chair, squeezed her hands until the knuckles were white. The diagnosis had been terrifying: a rare genetic disorder, something requiring constant care, regular medication, and someone to… help. Now, the doctor was apologizing, face flushed. “There’s been a mix-up, Amelia. Your records… they’re not yours.” A wave of nausea, like a rogue tide, crashed over her. She gripped the arms of the chair, her breath hitching. The relief was a cold, unfamiliar thing.

The doctor continued, explaining the actual results. Not the dire prognosis, but something manageable. Amelia nodded, a strange lightness in her chest. But then a thought, sharp as glass, sliced through the momentary joy. Who would she be now? What was she supposed to do without the scaffolding of the illness? She felt lost, untethered.

“So… I’m fine?” she whispered, the question a plea. The doctor confirmed it. Amelia stared at her hands, still clenched. The freedom felt like a void.