Gemotions

The sterile waiting room of the specialist's office felt like a padded cell. Margaret found herself pacing. She couldn't sit still, her hands clammy. The diagnosis, “Tempo-Degeneration,” had stolen the breath from her. She felt like a delicate vase, and the world was a clumsy giant.

She needed to get out, to breathe. But the door to the office was still firmly closed.

Suddenly, the door opened, and a woman emerged, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She bumped into Margaret as she stumbled out. Margaret caught her arm. "Are you alright?" she asked, the words feeling alien in her own throat. The woman looked up, her expression a mix of anguish and… something else. “I… I have it too,” she choked out.