Gemotions

The waiting room felt suffocating. A low hum vibrated through the worn floral wallpaper, making Amelia’s head throb. She slumped further into the oversized armchair, the springs protesting her weight. Sunlight, harsh and unforgiving, streamed through the blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. This was the fifth therapist she’d tried in as many months. Each session felt like climbing a mountain.

The receptionist, a woman with a perpetually cheerful smile, called out a name. Amelia’s heart hammered a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. When the door opened, a familiar face emerged. Mark Peterson. He’d been the bane of her existence in middle school. Amelia’s jaw clenched.

She watched him for a beat, calculating. He wore a tweed jacket and spectacles. He seemed to have filled out, but there was still a hint of that same smugness.

He gestured to her with a nod. Amelia, reluctantly, rose and followed him.