Gemotions

He stared at the microphone, a cold, metallic object that seemed to mock his fear. He felt a constant pressure behind his eyes, a sensation of impending doom. He adjusted his glasses, but the world remained blurry, out of focus.

He crossed his arms, trying to appear nonchalant. The polite applause for the previous speaker felt like a prelude to his own execution. He felt the cold sweat on his palms, and his breath hitched in his throat.

The emcee gestured to him. He slowly began walking, each step a monumental effort. He cleared his throat, but the sound felt thin and reedy, a pale imitation of what he hoped to project. He had to do this. He had to.