Gemotions

The speech was written. He'd spent days crafting it, editing it, revising it. Yet, as he read through it one final time, the words seemed to blur and swim before his eyes. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet of the empty house.

He practiced the speech in front of the mirror. His reflection offered no comfort. He stumbled over a sentence, his voice cracking. He imagined the audience's reactions, the polite smiles, the averted gazes. The thought made his stomach clench.

He poured himself a stiff drink, his hand trembling as he filled the glass. He knew he shouldn't. It wouldn't help. But the pressure was suffocating, and the liquor offered a brief, fleeting escape. He took a large gulp, the burning sensation a temporary distraction from the impending ordeal. He began pacing the floor again, the polished wood reflecting his growing unease.