Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more frantic than calming. The room swam before his eyes; the colorful decorations felt like a garish assault on his senses. The scent of potpourri, which his mother inexplicably loved, suddenly filled him with a sense of unease. He felt the familiar pressure building behind his eyes, a sensation like a balloon about to burst.

He’d practiced the speech countless times, but now, on the precipice of delivering it, the words seemed to have vanished. He wished he had a bottle of water, or anything to calm the flailing within him.

"You ready, son?" His sister's voice, laced with gentle concern, broke through the fog. He managed a weak smile, hoping it masked the sheer dread that consumed him. The floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet.