Gemotions

"This is it," I whispered, the words barely audible. Across the street, the building where the interview was taking place loomed large. I gripped my briefcase so tightly my knuckles turned white. My palms were slick with perspiration. I felt a coldness creeping up my spine.

Mark, my friend, gave me a reassuring smile. "You got this, mate."

I managed a weak grin in return. We had spent weeks preparing, poring over possible interview questions, practicing our pitches. Now, though, the words seemed to have deserted me. I felt as though I was about to walk into an arena.

"Good luck," Mark said, his voice level.