Gemotions

The drive to the clinic felt like an eternity. The world looked drab and washed out, reflecting the inner landscape of Marcus. He felt like he was slogging through quicksand. Every task, every interaction, felt like a monumental effort.

He was there, seeking help, an attempt at regaining some footing. The therapist's name on the door was etched into his memory. He knew who it would be. John. John, who had made his life a misery.

He stood outside the door, hesitating for a moment. He pushed it open and saw him: John, in a suit and tie, a picture of composure. "Marcus, please, come in," John said, his voice measured. Marcus stepped inside, the weight of the past pressing down on him.