Gemotions

He stared at the blank notepad, then at his hands, which were clenched in his lap. The polished wood of the desk seemed to gleam, reflecting back the light of the setting sun streaming through the window. It had been years since he’d felt this… *aware*. His appointment with Dr. Reed, his childhood nemesis, had been a gamble, a desperate attempt to untangle the knotted mess inside him.

The therapist, now a man, sat opposite him, his eyes level and unwavering. "So, tell me about your week," Dr. Reed prompted, his voice gentle but firm. A low growl rose in the back of the patient’s throat. He shifted in his seat, his gaze darting around the room, taking in every detail.

"I… I don't know where to start," he stammered, the words feeling clumsy, inadequate. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the notepad. He wanted to shout, to punch something, to release the energy that coursed through him like electricity. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

“Start with the feeling,” Reed suggested, his voice unwavering, “where do you feel it?”