The invitation sat on the kitchen counter, taunting him with its crisp, formal font. He picked it up, then immediately put it back down, as if the paper was hot. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he felt a sudden urge to flee the room, to escape the impending doom of public speaking. His stomach twisted into a tight knot. He grabbed a glass of water, gulping it down in a desperate attempt to quell the rising tide of anxiety.
He started pacing, the rhythmic thud of his shoes against the hardwood floor the only sound in the otherwise quiet house. "What am I going to say?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. The thought of standing in front of all those people, all those judging eyes, made his chest constrict. He imagined his carefully crafted words dissolving into a jumbled mess of stammering and awkward pauses.
His mother, always the picture of grace and composure, wouldn’t understand. She'd probably think he was being dramatic. He envisioned her smile faltering, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. The thought sent a fresh wave of unease crashing over him. He needed to get out, to breathe. He threw on his jacket and bolted out the door, the fresh air offering only minimal respite.