Gemotions

He’d almost walked out. The sterile smell of the hospital, the endless fluorescent lights—they pressed on Thomas like a physical weight. The receptionist, with her placid smile, only amplified his mounting agitation. He'd waited for an hour already. An hour of suppressed anger, of trying to breathe slowly, of keeping the tremor in his hands from becoming obvious.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was his boss, reminding him about the deadline. He crushed the phone in his hand, as if he could crush the endless demands on his time.

A woman with fiery red hair, seated nearby, was scribbling furiously in a notepad. Her pen dug into the paper. It looked as if it might rip right through. She looked up, her gaze locking onto his. A silent challenge.

He noticed then, the subtle tremor in her hands. The way her knuckles were white. He knew that look. It was the face of someone fighting the same unending, internal battle.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered, the words a low growl. "Is this also your first appointment for…?”

He finished her sentence, his voice tight. "The osteosclerosis?"