Gemotions

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral. Amelia crossed her arms, the movement sharp, as if warding off a physical blow. A small, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her jaw. She gripped the worn fabric of her purse, knuckles bone-white. It was ludicrous, really, to be here, to be subjected to this.

The door opened. "Amelia?" The voice, familiar and yet unsettlingly calm, sliced through the air. It was Mark, the bane of her existence in sixth grade, now looking… well, composed. She lifted her chin, the movement a deliberate act of defiance, and followed him into his office.

He gestured to a chair. She bypassed it, instead wandering to the window, feigning interest in the drab street below. “So,” he said, his tone even, “What brings you here?” She stared out the window a moment longer, then spun around, her eyes meeting his. “I’m fine,” she stated flatly.