Gemotions

He found himself pacing outside the office. The air felt thick, charged. A knot of tension twisted in his gut, making him clench his fists. He hadn't expected to recognize the name on the door, let alone the face. Mark, a therapist? It was a sick joke. He wanted to leave, turn and run, but something – a twisted sense of obligation, maybe – held him rooted to the spot.

He finally walked inside. The waiting room was as sterile as a hospital. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tamp down the rising tide of frustration. The woman who emerged to greet him had the same infuriatingly cheerful demeanor he remembered. He felt his lips curl into a sneer, but he forced them into a semblance of civility.

“Mr. Davies?” she chirped. “Please, come in.”

He followed her, the small of his back prickling with a sensation of unease.