Gemotions

The microphone felt heavy in Amelia's hand. The ballroom shimmered, a kaleidoscope of faces blurring at the edges. Her mother, resplendent in a sapphire dress, beamed at her from the head table. Amelia’s mouth felt impossibly dry. She cleared her throat, a sound that seemed to echo unnecessarily loud in the sudden hush. Her prepared speech lay folded and neglected in her trembling hand.

“Well,” she began, her voice a reedy whisper. She looked down at the floor, suddenly fascinated by the intricate pattern of the carpet. The air grew thick, like cotton.

She tried to remember the opening line, the funny anecdote she’d practiced for days. It was gone, vanished. All that remained was a swirling chaos of fragmented memories, a buzzing in her ears.

“Um…” she mumbled, unable to go on.