Gemotions

The waiting room smelled of lavender and something vaguely reminiscent of old paper. Sarah fidgeted on the plush, cream-colored sofa. Across from her, a framed print of a watercolor landscape offered little solace. Her chest felt open and vulnerable.

Her name was called. Standing, she smoothed down her skirt, then followed the receptionist down a short hallway. The therapist’s door was a muted gray. She knocked lightly.

"Come in!" The voice was familiar, yet unexpected. It was Mark, the bane of her middle school existence. He sat behind a large desk, the picture of professional serenity. He gestured towards a chair. She sat. He smiled gently.

“It’s good to see you, Sarah,” he said softly. “Tell me what brings you here.” She took a deep breath, and began to explain about her struggles with work, but found herself also detailing the anxiety that had been with her since childhood. He listened intently, not interrupting, his gaze steady and unwavering, occasionally nodding.