Gemotions

The morning sun felt like a weight, pressing down on Amelia as she shuffled into the therapist's waiting room. Everything felt like a monumental effort – even breathing. She slumped onto a chair, the floral wallpaper blurring in her vision. *This is just too much,* she thought, the words heavy and slow in her mind. A magazine lay on the table, but the thought of lifting it felt exhausting.

"Amelia?" a voice called.

She looked up, a wave of cold nausea washing over her. It was Mark, her childhood tormentor. He stood in the doorway, older, more refined, but undeniably Mark. His smile was professional, practiced. Amelia slowly rose, her limbs feeling like they were filled with concrete.

“Come in,” he said, gesturing towards the office with a calm that felt almost mocking.