Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight slicing through the blinds. John stared at the floor, tracing the pattern of the linoleum with his toe. He'd rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in his head, but now, faced with David, his childhood tormentor, all the words evaporated. His face felt hot, his palms slick.

He remembers the way David would corner him in the locker room, the way he'd laugh, watching John's humiliation.

David, now Dr. Peterson, leaned forward, a notepad resting on his knee. "Take your time," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "There's no rush." John swallowed hard. The chair seemed to be pressing down on him, constricting his chest.

"I… I can't sleep," John finally managed, his voice barely a whisper. "And everything just feels… heavy."