09/08/2025
𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬 | 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗔𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗢𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗪𝗵𝗼 𝗦𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗱
“And what about those who really tried their best but still failed?”
I used to think that was going to be me.
Back then, my calculator was always warm, but my heart never was. Its plastic keys held the faint scent of graphite and tired fingers, each click echoing in the quiet like small declarations of war. Every solved equation felt like a battle won, but the war — the pressure, the uncertainty — raged on without pause. I didn’t even know if this was what I truly wanted to pursue, but I couldn’t argue with what I had. This path was mine, whether by choice or by chance, and all I could do was keep moving forward.
I don’t know what part of me was broken — maybe the piece that once believed everything would be simple, or the one that thought effort alone was enough. All I knew was that some days I felt like a cracked vessel, still carrying the weight but leaking hope with every step.
There were nights I thought I wouldn’t make it — nights where the yellow glow of my desk lamp turned the world into a lonely, muted gold. Days when the weight on my shoulders felt like a boulder pried loose from a mountain, pressing down until my breath came in shallow, uneven waves. I told myself, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱, over and over, like a quiet chant to ward off defeat.
And yet — here I am.
Things are lighter now. My calculator is still warm, but so is my heart. The boy who once sat across from me in the library — his head bent low, pen tapping to some rhythm only he knew — is now the one who walks me home under skies painted with dusk. He keeps me laughing on the days I forget how, his voice weaving brightness into my tired edges. He’s not the reason I survived — but he’s the reason I learned to live while surviving.
I still remember the heaviness: the bitter coffee cooling beside untouched notes, the hollow quiet after deadlines passed. I still remember the fear: the kind that settled in my bones like winter. But now it exists alongside something else — mornings steeped in sunlight and certainty, afternoons where numbers click into place like puzzle pieces, nights where the path ahead glows faintly, no longer frightening.
So I’ve changed my question.
“And what about those who really tried their best and thought they’d fail… but didn’t?”
Maybe they become people like me. People who still carry the memory of the dark — but finally walk in the light. People who, once broken, find that the cracks let the sunrise in.
Words by Ms. Summerae
Art by Nickalicious
