Gemotions

The waiting room was all muted earth tones and the hushed tones of strangers. Sarah shifted in the uncomfortable chair, the fabric scratching at the back of her legs. Butterflies, or maybe angry wasps, were buzzing in her stomach. She hadn't seen Mark since middle school, when he'd tripped her in the cafeteria, spilling her tray of spaghetti and meatballs across the floor. Now, his name was on the office door: Dr. Mark Harrison, Licensed Therapist. She pressed her lips together, her jaw tight.

Her knuckles were white around the worn paperback she clutched. She knew, rationally, she was seeking help. The panic attacks were getting worse. But the thought of confiding in *him* felt like a cruel joke.

“Sarah Miller?” a calm voice called. It was him. Taller, broader, his hair neatly styled. The same cold blue eyes, though they were softened by a professional smile. She forced herself to stand, offering a tight, clipped, “Yes.”