Gemotions

He stared at the speech he had printed, each word a mocking reminder of his current state. He felt a constant agitation, as if his skin was too tight. The meticulously crafted paragraphs seemed dull and predictable. He wanted to tear them up, to throw them away.

He kept drumming his fingers on the table, the rhythmic tapping a frantic plea for something to change. He needed to move, to do something, anything, but the party was a prison, and he was the captive. The thought of performing his speech was a dark cloud hanging over him.

He excused himself to the restroom, splashing cold water on his face. The reflection in the mirror stared back at him, an image of someone he barely recognized. He felt a desperate urge to bolt, to break free.