Gemotions

She stared at the document, the clinical language washing over her in a cold wave. The diagnosis wasn’t hers. The treatment plan, the prognosis… none of it. It was like reading about a different person’s life, a life she wasn’t sure she wanted to live. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, a relentless, monotonous rhythm that matched the hollowness in her chest.

"Hello?" The doctor's voice on the other end of the phone was professional, clipped. She’d tried to call, to explain the error, but each explanation was a chore. Every sentence felt heavy, each breath a struggle.

She ran a hand through her hair, the strands falling limply against her forehead. The image of the other patient, a life she was now privy to, clung to her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to disappear. But all she could manage was a quiet, defeated sigh.