Gemotions

He slammed the door of his apartment, the echo a sharp punctuation mark to the day. Every day felt like a cruel joke, a cosmic prank designed to mock his limitations. He yanked off his tie, the fabric feeling like a noose around his neck. The doctor's words replayed in his head, a constant soundtrack of frustration: "Manageable, with care."

A crumpled flyer lay on the counter, a clinic advertisement. He’d seen it before, tossed aside with disdain. Now, he picked it up, flipping it over, his hands shaking slightly. He hadn’t been able to make it to the gym, again, not that he could do much. Others had it worse, he knew. He’d read the stories, the online forums. But this was his burden, his cage.

The clinic was a sterile white box. He sat in the waiting room, seething. Other people with this condition. He didn't want to connect with them, didn't want the reminder, the shared burden.

The woman who eventually emerged was the same age, early thirties, as him. She held out a hand, a gesture of camaraderie that he couldn't bring himself to return. "I'm Sarah." Her voice was soft, too cheerful. He just grunted, the sound a release of all the feelings pent up inside.