Gemotions

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and something vaguely floral, a cloying sweetness that made Amelia’s teeth ache. She drummed her fingers on the armrest, the faux leather cool and unyielding. The magazines, arranged in perfect rows, seemed to taunt her with their glossy smiles. She felt a prickle of heat under her skin, a familiar tightening in her jaw. Just the thought of her session, the forced vulnerability, made her want to bolt.

The receptionist called her name, and Amelia rose, her movements stiff. The therapist's office was predictably bland – a beige canvas that screamed ‘therapy’ and yet did nothing to soothe her unease. Then, she saw her. The woman behind the desk, her face etched with a polite smile, was none other than Brenda from fourth grade. The girl who used to steal Amelia’s lunch money and call her “thunder thighs.”

“Amelia, isn’t it?” Brenda asked, her voice calm and practiced. Amelia’s response was a terse nod.