Gemotions

He dragged himself through the city, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Each footfall was a victory, each breath a struggle. He clutched the worn leather of his satchel, the strap digging into his shoulder, a physical manifestation of the ache that settled deep within him. Passing a pharmacy, he remembered the medication and his stomach dropped, a familiar, unwelcome sensation.

Inside the sterile waiting room, he noticed another person hunched in a chair, their face buried in their hands. They sat perfectly still, not even the rise and fall of their chest suggesting they were alive. When he was called, he found that he had to be helped into the examination room, because his legs would not cooperate.

The doctor started with the usual questions, and his throat closed up, making the answers impossible. "There's a support group," the doctor said, finally. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding. The man took the pamphlet with a shaky hand and left.