Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the doctor's office buzzed, a sound that seemed to bore into Amelia's skull. She sat hunched in the plastic chair, the thin paper gown crinkling uncomfortably beneath her. Days, they just bled into each other now. The receptionist, a woman with a perpetually cheerful smile, had just delivered the news: a mix-up. Her file, the receptionist explained, had been mistakenly paired with another patient.

Amelia just stared, her fingers tracing the worn edges of her purse. The information, a jumble of medical jargon and unfamiliar conditions, felt like a lead weight in her stomach. What did it all mean? She mumbled a quiet "Excuse me?" The receptionist repeated herself, but the words felt distant.

She could barely bring herself to care. Lately, everything seemed like a monumental effort. Even breathing felt like a task.