Gemotions

The waiting room felt suddenly too small. The floral wallpaper seemed to be closing in, the bland paintings on the wall taking on an accusatory cast. She gripped the worn strap of her purse, knuckles bone-white. There, across the room, was Mark. Mark, with the same cruel smirk she remembered from the swingset, now wearing a perfectly pressed linen shirt.

Her stomach churned. This was a joke, a cosmic prank. He, the boy who used to trip her on the sidewalk, was now a *therapist*? She felt a flush creep up her neck, burning her cheeks.

"Sarah Miller?" a calm voice said. She tried to project an air of composure as she rose, but her legs felt like lead. Each step forward was an agonizing act of defiance, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity.