Gemotions

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the motion repeating itself like a broken record. The office, usually a place of calm, of meticulous order, now felt like a cage. The words "terminal illness" echoed in his mind, replacing the usual background noise of his thoughts. It couldn't be right. There had to be a mistake. He reread the letter – the name, the date of birth, the address – all wrong.

His breath came in short, shallow gasps. He felt a tingling sensation, starting in his fingertips and working its way up his arms, a chilling wave that left him feeling detached from his own body. The receptionist, a woman he knew by name, was now a blur of concerned features. He couldn't hear what she was saying, just the frantic drumming of his own heart.

He wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the words wouldn't come. He opened his mouth, but only a dry rasp escaped. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something, anything. Instead, he gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and focused all his energy on staying upright. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the information to vanish, for this nightmare to just go away.