Gemotions

Her breath hitched in her throat, a shallow, ragged gasp. The perfume he’d bought her still lingered in the air, a cruel, mocking reminder of the life they had built. She sat on the couch, the same couch where they had spent countless evenings, and the fabric felt rough against her skin, each fiber grating against her nerves. The tears flowed freely, hot and relentless. She knew she needed help. She’d always found therapy helpful, but it had been a while. She looked up therapists. And there it was. Mark Peterson. Her jaw tightened. She vaguely remembered him from years ago. The thought of seeing him felt… wrong.