Gemotions

The sterile white of the office was making Clara's stomach churn. She had to take a deep breath to steady herself. Outside, the world was alive, vibrant. Here, every surface seemed to mock her. The receptionist had called his name, "Mr. Thorne?" She had recognized the last name immediately. Mark Thorne, the boy who'd once convinced her she was worthless.

She walked in slowly. Mark sat in a large leather chair. He had a kind face, a gentle smile. "Clara," he said, and his voice held no malice. Only…concern?

She stared at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.