Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked her palms as she dialed the number. The sterile waiting room seemed to shrink, the floral wallpaper pressing in on her. She'd seen the profile picture online, the same smirking eyes, now softened by a carefully cultivated beard. Mark - Dr. Mark, now - was waiting for her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Why had she even made the appointment?

The receptionist, a woman with a sympathetic smile, beckoned her down the hall. Each step felt like wading through molasses. The door to his office was ajar, and she saw him, sitting behind a large mahogany desk. He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. A ghost of that familiar sneer played on his lips. "Come in, Sarah," he said, his voice smooth, professional.

She sat down, the leather of the chair squeaking under her weight. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken memories and the suffocating weight of yesterday's playground taunts. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She found herself staring at her hands, fidgeting with the strap of her purse.