The invitation sat on Amelia's kitchen counter, a pristine white rectangle taunting her. “Speech Requested,” it read, nestled between the names of her parents. Her stomach clenched. It always did when she was asked to perform. Standing up in front of everyone, making herself the focus, was a special kind of torture. She’d much rather be safely tucked away in the back, observing, analyzing, blending into the wallpaper. She picked up the phone, her fingers hovering over her father’s number. Maybe she could feign illness.
She spent the following week agonizing. Every time she thought about it, a wave of nausea washed over her. She’d pace her apartment, tugging at her hair, muttering lines she’d never deliver. Even choosing an outfit felt paralyzing. Her closet, usually a source of comfort, suddenly felt like a prison.
The day of the party, she arrived late, a bead of sweat tracing a path down her spine. The venue shimmered with bright lights and boisterous laughter. Finding her parents, she greeted them with a forced smile that felt brittle. As she approached the podium, her palms slicked with perspiration. Her throat constricted, making it hard to breathe. All eyes. On her. Always.