Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in her mouth. She slammed the mug down on the counter, the ceramic clattering against the granite. Another missed deadline. Another failed attempt to navigate the minefield of office politics. Her jaw was clenched so tight she felt a muscle spasm.

"He's good, though," Sarah, her coworker, had said that morning. "Really good. Handles everything with a practiced calm." Sarah had been talking about her therapist, a recommendation from a mutual acquaintance. The therapist's name? Mark Henderson. The Mark Henderson. The boy who used to trip her in the hallway, steal her lunch money, and call her names until she cried.

Her stomach churned. The very idea made her want to kick something. She considered calling Sarah back, but the thought of admitting she'd need therapy now, when she had spent years building a wall of stoicness, was more than she could bear.