Gemotions

The drive to the clinic had been agonizing, each mile seeming to stretch into an eternity. He’d tried to rationalize it, to tell himself it was just a coincidence, that this couldn't possibly be *him*. But the name on the door, "Dr. Richard Bellweather, Psy.D.", confirmed his worst fears.

He sat in the waiting room, trying to project an air of composure. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down. The air felt thick, difficult to breathe. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

The door opened. Bellweather, his face a mask of professional neutrality, beckoned him inside. He moved like a puppet.

The office was surprisingly small, almost claustrophobic. He sat down, the chair creaking ominously beneath him.