Gemotions

A tremor ran through Leo as he entered the waiting room. The sterile white walls felt oppressive, the air thick with unspoken anxieties. His palms were slick, and he wiped them surreptitiously on his jeans. He hadn't seen Mark, the bane of his elementary school existence, in over a decade. Now, here he was, staring at the nameplate: Mark Harding, LCSW. He felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. He was always drawn to things that hurt him.

The receptionist, a kind-faced woman with a name tag that read "Brenda," beckoned him to follow. Each step towards Mark's office felt like a forced march. His heart hammered against his ribs. He felt weak, exposed.

He sat in the chair, unable to make eye contact. He waited for Mark to speak, to take control. He felt himself shrinking, folding in on himself. He was a child again, anticipating punishment.