Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the clinic hummed, a monotonous drone that felt amplified in Amelia’s skull. Her hands, clammy and trembling, fumbled with the clasp of her purse. The doctor’s words – “Rarer than hen’s teeth, really” – echoed in her memory. Now, she was left to sit here, amidst the sterile air and muted chatter of the waiting room, attempting to compose herself. She felt a profound instability, like the ground beneath her feet was constantly shifting.

A man across the room, perhaps mid-thirties, with a shock of unruly brown hair, kept glancing at her. His gaze flitted away whenever their eyes met. He coughed, a dry, nervous sound. Then he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Amelia found herself mirroring.

He finally stood, his movements stiff. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, approaching her. “Are you… are you here for the Evans-Fletcher syndrome consultation as well?” He held a file, identical to hers.