Gemotions

The elevator ascended slowly, each floor a new layer of tension. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She kept repeating, silently, “This isn’t real. This can't be real.”

The doors opened onto a sterile, brightly lit hallway. A nameplate: “Dr. Kevin Miller, PhD, Counseling.” Her breath hitched. Kevin Miller. The one who made her cry every single day on the playground.

She felt a wave of dizziness, and had to lean against the wall for support. It felt like time itself had warped. Twenty years had vanished, and she was suddenly eight again, small and afraid.

A voice called, "Please, come in, Emily." His voice was different now. Calm. Measured. Professional. It made it worse.