Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room hummed, a monotonous counterpoint to the racing pulse in Leo’s chest. He hadn't slept properly in days, jumpy at every creak of the floorboards in his apartment, every sudden shadow. A woman across from him, her face etched with a similar tension, kept adjusting the strap of her handbag, her eyes darting between the closed examination room door and the clock on the wall. They’d been waiting for hours.

He felt a prickle of unease when she met his gaze. He immediately looked away, tracing the worn pattern on the armrest of his chair. He hated the forced intimacy of shared suffering, the unspoken understanding that bound them.

The door finally opened, and a harried-looking doctor emerged, calling out, "Leo Miller?" He stood abruptly, muscles coiled, ready for whatever news was coming.