Gemotions

Rain hammered against the window, mirroring the dull ache in my head. I stared at the swirling water on the pane, utterly absorbed in its meaningless dance. Each raindrop seemed to represent another forgotten task, another neglected obligation. I just couldn't bring myself to care.

I had been aimlessly scrolling through social media, when I saw the name. Mark Peterson – therapist. My breath hitched. Mark Peterson, the kid who stole my lunch money, the one who tripped me in the school hallway, that Mark Peterson? My fingers felt numb as I clicked on his profile. Photos of him smiling, a professional headshot, a picture of his office, all pristine and orderly.

I closed my laptop with a snap. The sudden darkness seemed to amplify the feeling of emptiness inside me. Why did I even look? Why did anything matter? I picked up my phone, scrolled through my contacts, and found his number. This was a terrible idea. Still, I sent a text, a simple question: "Are you taking new patients?"