Gemotions

The air conditioning hummed, a low, constant drone that seemed to amplify the silence. Michael’s throat was tight; he’d been struggling with this for weeks. He found himself picking at the skin around his fingernails, a habit that always made his mother yell at him.

He hated that he was finally seeking help; it was another sign of weakness. He'd been too busy worrying about everything to ever feel good. He felt like his whole life was some kind of failure. He ran his hand over his chin.

The door opened. Marcus Bell. His old nemesis. Michael’s chest constricted, and he braced himself, a familiar wave of shame washing over him. It was a joke, a cosmic cruel joke.