Gemotions

The waiting room was a sterile white box, and the fluorescent lights hummed with an irritating buzz. Amelia tapped her foot, a staccato rhythm against the linoleum. The air felt thick, charged. She glanced at the framed diplomas on the wall, each one a testament to the years spent achieving this… this state of self-reflection she was supposedly seeking. But her heart was thrumming in her chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Her palms were slick.

She hadn’t expected to see *him* again. Mark. The bane of her existence in middle school. His name on the office door had nearly sent her bolting. Now, her palms were practically glued to her thighs, and she kept swallowing, trying to dislodge the nervous lump in her throat.

When the door opened, she rose quickly, a little too quickly, and her eyes met his. He looked… older. The sharp edges of his teenage years had softened, replaced by a calm, professional demeanor. His smile, though, felt like a deliberate provocation.

"Amelia, come in. Have a seat," he said, his voice measured. She followed him into the office, feeling every nerve ending ping.