Gemotions

His knuckles were white as he gripped the armrests of the chair. The room seemed to shrink, closing in on him, the walls pressing inwards. He couldn’t breathe. His breaths were short, shallow gasps. A wave of nausea rolled through him.

He hadn't been expecting this. He hadn't expected to recognize his childhood tormentor in the therapist's chair. The flood of memories – the taunts, the slights, the feeling of constant dread – hit him like a physical blow.

His vision blurred. He felt a desperate urge to flee, to escape the suffocating weight that threatened to crush him. He just needed to get away, and fast.