Gemotions

He stared at the lectern, the polished wood reflecting his own pinched expression. He could feel the pulse in his temple, a relentless drumbeat against the polite applause. His father, the man of the hour, was already halfway through the buffet line, chatting with colleagues, apparently revelling in the attention. It made him want to scream.

The room smelled of stale perfume and cheap champagne, a nauseating combination. He adjusted his tie, tugging at it until it felt like a noose. His prepared speech, penned with a strained civility, felt like a betrayal. He considered just walking out.

“Well,” he started, his voice flat. “It’s been an… interesting… journey.”