Gemotions

The invitation sat on the kitchen counter, a pristine white rectangle mocking Amelia’s existence. Her mother’s retirement party. And the dreaded "speech" portion. She sighed, a puff of air that seemed to carry the weight of the entire week. The sofa called to her, whispering promises of Netflix and oblivion.

Her fingers traced the edge of the invitation, a sudden urge to crumple it and toss it in the bin. She resisted, of course. She’d promised. But the thought of stringing together coherent sentences felt like scaling Everest in flip-flops.

The deadline loomed. The party was in two weeks. Maybe she could just… wing it? Stand up, say a few nice words, and sit back down. No one would notice if it wasn't a masterpiece, right? The thought soothed her like a warm bath.