Gemotions

He watched his mother fuss over the hors d'oeuvres, a whirlwind of energy in a floral dress. Michael leaned against the wall, observing the scene. He felt a familiar pull towards the periphery, towards the shadows where he could quietly watch, undisturbed. Giving a speech? It felt like a monumental task, a challenge to his very core.

He’d called his sister for advice, her voice bright and encouraging. "Just talk about the good times, Michael!" she’d said. Easy for her, the family’s golden child. He’d practiced a few sentences, his voice cracking each time. His mouth felt dry, his heart hammering against his ribs.

At the party, he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, avoiding eye contact. The clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation swirled around him, a disorienting cacophony. When his name was called, he felt a jolt of panic. He walked to the microphone, his legs heavy. He stuttered through his memorized words, his voice barely audible. He just wanted it to be over.