The entrance exams stretched over three relentless days. Day one hit me with Literature in the morning and Math in the afternoon, maybe a cruel combo of emotion and logic. Day two was a double dose of English: the regular paper first, then the specialized one that felt like it wanted to peel my brain apart. Day three closed it all with the dreaded speaking test, where my tongue felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Those days didn't just pass and they stormed through me like a hurricane, leaving every nerve frayed. My palms were always sweaty, my heartbeat never slowed, and at night, sleep played hard to get while equations and grammar rules threw a party in my head. The school hallways felt like a war zone as students pacing like soldiers before battle, teachers whispering final spells of hope, and the unspoken tension in the air so thick, you could almost choke on it.
But after the storm passed, I felt a strange kind of lightness. Like breathing after being underwater. I let myself sleep deeply and freely for the first time in weeks. No alarm clocks. No practice tests. The stress that once wrapped around my ribs slowly loosened. But it wasn't over yet. In two weeks, the results would be released. Two weeks is such a short time, and yet the wait made it stretch into forever. Every day dragged. I tried distracting myself with movies, baking, and scrolling through videos, but the thought always returned. "What if I failed? What if it wasn't enough?"
Thinking about the results always led me back to that Math exam. I remembered walking out of the room and feeling something inside me collapse. The realization hit halfway through the paper that one question I thought I had mastered suddenly twisted in my mind. I knew then that I had messed it up. Maybe not by much, but even a single point mattered. "Why now? Why on the most important day?" I cried quietly that evening, not the loud kind, but the kind that gets stuck in your throat and makes your pillowcase cold. I wanted to tell Shin. I wanted to hear his voice so badly. But he was buried in his own storm – final exams, GPA, expectations. I couldn't bother him.
He hadn't messaged me in days. I told myself I understood. He was in Qatar, miles away, buried under pressure I could barely imagine. But still, a quiet ache bloomed in my chest. I didn't need paragraphs. Just a word. A sign. Anything to cling to.
Time dragged its feet, and before I even realized it, today was the day. The day we'd see the results. My sister had her phone ready, my parents sat silently, everyone waiting for 4 p.m. It felt like the entire house was holding its breath. The shadows were long across the living room floor, and I sat there, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the couch cushion. My sister began entering my candidate number. Please, please, just be enough.
The screen loaded. The numbers appeared. And in that moment, I knew. It was lower than I had hoped. Not a failure. I made it into the top public school in the district. But not the dream. Not the gifted school I had given my days and nights to. So that's it. It's over. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just sat there, staring, as if the screen might change its mind. But it didn't.
The house felt different after that. Like the light had drained from the walls. After my shower, I walked into the living room and it felt dimmer. Not because of the hour, but because of the silence. Dad was outside with a cigarette in his hand. He had stopped for four months just because I hated the smell. I did not need to ask why he started again. People smoke when the hurt inside has no name and breathing feels too heavy.
Mom didn't say anything either. She glanced at me, long and cold, and then turned away. Her silence burned louder than shouting. Her eyes. They weren't just tired, they were angry. Frustrated. And it made me shrink inside.
Then the confirmation came from the gifted school's website. My name was not on the specialized list. We had already known. But seeing it there in plain text made it real. Made it sting. No one spoke during breakfast. No clinking spoons. No glances. Just silence. I stared at my bowl of rice, untouched. My appetite had vanished. Just like my confidence.
My sister snapped first.
"Why did we believe in you? For this?"
Her voice cracked like glass.
"You didn't try hard enough. You didn't take it seriously. You just... wasted it."
I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That I had stayed up late, cried over practice problems, whispered formulas in my sleep. But I couldn't find my voice. My throat felt like it was full of gravel.
I didn't cry. Maybe it was too much. Maybe the disappointment numbed everything. Or maybe I had believed too much in myself, thinking I was already there before I arrived. I kept looking at the ceiling, hoping maybe if I stared long enough, I'd wake up from this. But reality was solid. Too solid.
Mom finally broke the silence with a slap.
"Crying? Now? You embarrassed this whole family!"
Her palm hit my face before I could even register the words. It wasn't the pain that stunned me – it was the betrayal. My own mother, the one who once held my hand through nightmares, had become the nightmare itself. Her handprint lingered on my cheek like a bruise that wasn't physical.
The messages started flooding in. Aunts, uncles, my friends, all saying the same thing:
"It's okay"
"You tried,""
You're still amazing."
I hated every single word. I didn't want pity. I didn't want sympathy. I wanted to make people proud, not sorry.
Even when Dad said "We know you tried" it didn't matter. His words were soft, but the cigarette smoke said otherwise. I didn't need comfort. I needed success. And I didn't have it.
So yes, this summer will be long. Drenched in disappointment and heavy with exhaustion. Not the tiredness from studying, but the kind that settles deep when you know you let everyone down. Including yourself. I used to dream about high school like a movie scene — new beginnings, new faces, excitement. Now all I see is a hallway of closed doors.
I lie in bed and think about everything. The things I did. The things I didn't. The nights I stayed up. The ones I didn't push hard enough. I replay it all, over and over, trying to find the exact moment where everything went wrong.
And maybe that's the worst part.
Not the failure.
Not the shouting.
Not even the slap.
Just the quiet realization that you weren't enough.
And the terrifying fear that maybe you never will be.