Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the hospital seemed to close in on him. Every echoing footstep, every hushed conversation, amplified his unease. He’d seen the files, and then, in a moment of sheer recklessness, he’d placed the wrong folder back in the wrong spot.

He spent the subsequent days watching the other patient, a man he'd never met, deteriorate, knowing his own actions had contributed. He couldn’t eat. The food tasted like ash. His mouth was dry, his tongue heavy. He jumped at every unexpected noise.

The staff's quiet whispers, the knowing glances. He knew what they thought. His own reflection in the gleaming doors showed a man aged beyond his years, the lines of distress carved deep into his face. He felt like a coiled spring, ready to snap.