Gemotions

The sterile white walls amplified the sound of the ticking clock, a relentless, judgmental rhythm. Michael drummed his fingers on the uncomfortable, impersonal chair, the noise echoing in his ears. He hated being here. He hated needing help. He hated *him*.

He had to control himself. He told himself over and over, as he imagined different ways to break the man's perfect smile.

The door clicked open, and David… Dr. Thompson, he reminded himself, in his head. The man stepped inside, offering a smile that sent a spike of something through Michael's chest.

"Michael, good to see you. Please, have a seat."

Michael took a breath, trying to steady it. He forced his hands to still.

“You know, I always pictured you a lot bigger," Michael said.