Gemotions

The flickering neon sign of the diner cast long shadows across the empty booth as Maya stared at her reflection in the window. Her hands, usually steady, fidgeted with the sugar packets, tearing them open and tossing the contents onto the table. There was a tremor in her jaw, a faint pulsing she couldn't quell. Another sleepless night. Another morning feeling like a stranger in her own skin.

A shadow fell across her table. A man with tired eyes and a kind smile asked if he could sit. She nodded, wordless, and watched as he took a seat. He ordered coffee, his voice a low rumble.

"You look..." he began, pausing mid-sentence, "troubled."

"I am," she finally answered, surprised at the bluntness. He looked familiar. Something about the way he moved, the way he held himself, clicked in her memory.

He pointed to her wrist, where she’d unconsciously been tapping her fingers. "Do you ever get that?" he asked. The same tremor. The same involuntary twitch. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal a small, identical scar to one she had.

"The doctors," he began softly, "they said I have a rare condition. Malacia Nervosa."