Gemotions

The waiting room's air felt thick, suffocating. Every floral print, every framed motivational poster, mocked her. She drummed her fingers against the worn vinyl of the chair, the rhythmic tapping a frantic counterpoint to the polite Muzak playing overhead. *Him*? A therapist? The very idea was a bitter joke. This couldn't be happening.

She’d rehearsed what she would say, word for word. She’d envisioned the moment of recognition, the look of… what? Remorse? Shame? Whatever it was, she was ready to unleash it. But now, as the receptionist announced his name, a tremor seized her.

Her breath hitched. The receptionist had a kind smile, completely oblivious to the chaos brewing inside her. “Dr. Harding will see you now.” She gripped her purse so hard her knuckles were white.