Gemotions

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral, a scent that usually soothed her but now only amplified the hollowness inside. She clutched the worn photograph tighter, knuckles white against the glossy paper. It was a picture of her and Sarah, both beaming, caught in a moment of sun-drenched laughter, a lifetime ago. The nameplate on the door read "Sarah Miller, LCSW." Her breath hitched. Sarah Miller. The girl who’d made her life a misery in middle school.

The door opened. Sarah stood there, older, softer somehow, but still undeniably the same Sarah, with that familiar, unnervingly direct gaze. "Come in, Emily," she said, her voice gentle. Emily felt a shiver trace its way down her spine. The photograph felt heavy in her hand. “I just… I don’t know where to start.”

“It’s okay," Sarah said, gesturing toward a plush armchair. "We can take our time." The room was filled with books and soft lighting. Emily sat, the picture still clutched in her fist.