Gemotions

Her palms were slick with sweat. The microphone felt like a live wire as she gripped it. Across the ballroom, her father beamed, oblivious to the internal storm raging within her. He was probably expecting a heartfelt tribute, maybe a funny anecdote about childhood. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the enormous lump that had suddenly lodged in her throat. This was a terrible idea.

She had rehearsed this speech a dozen times, but now, facing the sea of expectant faces, the carefully crafted words dissolved into gibberish. Her vision swam. The room seemed to be closing in, the clinking of glasses and the murmurs of conversation amplified in her ears. She forced a shaky smile, hoping it masked the sheer, unadulterated dread that consumed her.

"Um… Hi, everyone," she began, her voice a thin, reedy whisper. She hated her voice. It was betraying her already.