Gemotions

The microphone felt cold in his hand. He glanced out at the sea of faces, all expectant. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing unnaturally in the vast hall. The opening sentence of his speech felt stale, the words tasting like cardboard in his mouth.

He stumbled through the prepared remarks, feeling a profound sense of detachment. His gaze drifted to the window, the city lights twinkling in the distance. He wished he could be anywhere else, doing anything else.

He forced a smile, the muscles in his face protesting. The speech droned on, a painful exercise in performative gratitude. He felt like an actor in a play he didn't want to be in.