Gemotions

The microphone felt heavy in Elias’s hand. He gripped it a little too tightly, his knuckles white. The ballroom shimmered with the reflected light of the crystal chandeliers, a dizzying spectacle. He swallowed, the lump in his throat refusing to budge. He glanced at his mother, beaming up at him from the head table. She looked so happy, so relaxed, a stark contrast to the coiled spring inside him.

He cleared his throat. It sounded like a rusty hinge. "Well," he began, his voice cracking slightly. He hated public speaking. It always made his palms sweat and his heart hammer against his ribs. He just wanted to get it over with, to disappear back into the crowd and breathe again.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the polished floor cold against his soles. He wished he had practiced more. The words felt clumsy and awkward as they stumbled out, a jumbled mess of half-formed thoughts.