Gemotions

The waiting room was sterile, the air thick with the faint scent of disinfectant and forced calm. Amelia tapped her foot, the staccato rhythm a counterpoint to the hushed murmurs around her. She'd been feeling off-kilter all week, a knot of unease twisting in her stomach. Now, staring at the name on the door – "Dr. Marcus Bellweather, Therapist" – a fresh wave of agitation washed over her. *Bellweather?* It was, undeniably, *him*. The very person who’d made her life a living hell in elementary school.

She considered fleeing, but the thought of rebooking, of admitting defeat, was even less palatable. She sighed, pushing open the door.

The office was a study in beige. Marcus, older now, with a carefully trimmed beard and a warm, inviting smile, gestured towards a plush armchair. "Amelia, right? Please, have a seat." The way his eyes crinkled at the corners, that familiar, too-knowing look, almost made her choke. She sat, ramrod straight, her jaw clenched.

“So,” he began, his voice smooth and professional, “What brings you here today?” Amelia crossed her arms. *As if he didn't already know,* she thought.