Gemotions

“I don’t want to go,” I muttered to myself, the invitation clutched tightly in my hand. I could feel my pulse hammering in my temples. The elegant font and the promise of a night of nostalgia seemed to promise torture. My stomach twisted.

My apartment felt small, the walls closing in. I paced the floor, running through scenarios in my head, each one more fraught with anxiety than the last. I imagined the inevitable questions, the forced smiles, the veiled competitions.

I looked at myself in the mirror, searching for the person I used to be. The face that stared back was unfamiliar, worn down by years of striving and the sting of unfulfilled potential. I felt a profound sense of inadequacy, a deep-seated fear of exposure. I threw the invitation in the trash, then immediately retrieved it, my hands trembling.