Weaving her way through the crowds and cameras, the gowns and suits, the pleasantries and hellos and thank yous and smiles, Clara felt like she couldnât breathe. By all accounts, this night was perfect: the film was received with roaring applause, all of her friends and family were here, and they were celebrating in the MoMA, of all places. And while she had been undoubtedly nervous throughout the night, Camâs reassuring presence, his hand tightly wrapped around hers, seemed to steady her. But now, in the lobby of the museum, Clara had been whisked away to mingle and take photographs, and she suddenly felt as if she were drowning.
âYes,â Clara said, nodding along politely to some movie executive she couldnât even digest the name of, her eyes darting from the man to the rest of the room, and she was sure she continued to speak, but her words did not resonate in her head. What was she doing here? She was so out of place, and she must look ridiculous in her silly dress, which suddenly felt all too tight. And where were her parents, and were they having fun, and did they like the movie at all? This was wrong, so wrong, all wrong. And now someone new was calling her name from across the room, and someone else was touching her shoulder, and everything seemed to be getting closer and closer and closer and couldnât they tell that she couldnât breathe? Clara clenched her shaking hands into fists and pushed them against her stomach, hoping the pressure would steady her heartbeat.
âIf youâll excuse me for a second--â Clara interrupted, trying to maintain poise as she quickly turned towards the hallway. Her body felt like static, which mixed with the distorting room to make her feel eerily unreal. Was breathing always this hard? She could feel tears pinch the corners of her eyes. Keeping her head down, Clara slipped out of the main room and into the bathroom, her hands too shaky to properly lock the door, before she doubled over against the wall.
@whambamcamâ
