Gemotions

He stood by the buffet, examining the miniature quiches with exaggerated interest. Her breath hitched. The room, which moments before had seemed bright and festive, now felt oppressive, the air thick with unspoken tension. She took a step back, as if physically recoiling.

"Hey, Sarah!" a voice boomed behind her. She jumped, startled. It was Mark, her friend, the groom. He clapped her on the shoulder. "You look fantastic!" She mumbled a thanks, her voice barely audible.

Her gaze kept drifting back to him. He was talking animatedly with someone, but she couldn't make out the words. A pressure built in her chest, a feeling of being weighed down, pinned to the spot. Her palms began to sweat, and she discreetly wiped them on her dress.

She found herself analyzing his every movement, assessing his posture, his expression. What was he thinking? Did he even see her? The thought of having to actually *speak* to him filled her with a profound reluctance.