Gemotions

The waiting room felt far too bright. Sarah tugged at the hem of her sweater, the wool scratching against her skin. The magazines on the coffee table were all the glossy kind, filled with smiling, perfect people. She hadn't expected to see *him* here. Not Dr. Harrison. The name on the door seemed to mock her, especially when she’d instantly recognized the lanky frame and perpetually smirking mouth.

She was here to talk about her anxiety, the kind that made her feel like everyone was staring, judging. Now, she felt like she’d walked into a particularly cruel episode of her childhood. Her palms were slick, and she rubbed them against her jeans.

The receptionist called her name. Sarah swallowed hard and walked toward the door, her pace slow, deliberate. This was a nightmare.