Gemotions

He arrived early, a deliberate act designed to steel himself. The waiting room was as predictable as a bad sitcom: muted colors, generic artwork, and the incessant murmur of hushed conversations. He flipped through a magazine, the pages feeling slick and offensive beneath his fingertips. His eyes scanned the room, searching for an escape route.

The name, when it was called, brought him to a halt. His breath hitched in his throat. He felt the cold seep through his limbs. The therapist’s name was familiar, far too familiar. He stood up, his legs feeling unsteady. He walked towards the office, his pace slowing with each step.

He saw the therapist and a wave of pure resentment washed over him.