u/Mohammed_Bader

It may look too obvious at the first glance, but I have to tell you that for most of people(Especially men), it’s intellectually not.

It’s usually treated as a meme, or something to tease girls with; by men it’s potentially a tool to grow confidence, for women it’s profoundly degrading and disrespectful—and rarely used as an excuse by some of them.

That’s what my mom told me days ago, when I was about to start my driving lessons, she said: “You’re a boy, you don’t have to mind it”, and later my dad said: “If women can drive, why can’t you?”. They said that explicitly, without shame or hesitation, not because we’re retarded(We’re taught about gender equality), but because it tells that this thought is not just a joke, it’s something believed by a lot of people—If not explicitly, mentally and implicitly.

And after the research I’ve done, I found how this mentality can be dangerous. It’s not dangerous in terms of “Misogyny”, but it is when it comes to literal safety.

You see, when it comes to anything; Everything is affected by the totality of factors. It’s hard to apply this concept into everything, but when it matters, you’re obligated to do so. And here we ask, why men may look better at driving?

For this topic, a lot of people may lean to explain the biological, experimental, and sociological aspects; summoned to excuse those beliefs.
Confidence is the main keyword we’re using here. Men are usually imagined as unhesitant individuals; we don’t think too much before doing something we’re able to.

Confidence for men is dependent essentially on testosterone, social factors, and ego.
When a man rides a car, his mind will always remind him “You’re supposed to be good at that instinctively”. So when he rides, the pressure is minimal.

For a woman, she’s always too careful; because she’s told that she’s expected to be worse, and any failure, just any failure, May prove that right to her, and the society.

Statistically, men are responsible for %90 of the criminal driving accidents; fatal ones scrutinized at courts.
Driving under influence(DUI), overspeeding, etc.. All of those may believed that being a man, means you’re accident resistant.

So I have to say, testosterone gives courage, confidence, you need that; but confidence doesn’t necessarily provide accuracy.. We don’t want women to drive like men, we need men to drive like women.

I’m saying that because I’m finally about to put my foot on the pedals. And I need to have the right mindset driving a ~1500Kg metal-made killing machine. I’m not expected to be good at driving until I prove it otherwise; tell that your son.

It was the World Cup. I was a player for Cape Verde, a substitute. I couldn’t imagine our team had made it out of the groups! Oh god, we were playing in the round of 32… against… I couldn’t believe it. Look it up if you don’t believe me.

Yeah, I’m Nelo. I was 18, and I didn’t know if they’d let me play.

I was a defender. That night in Miami, I just kept hitting the ball on the training ground. I felt I loved it there; I wanted to stay longer. That wouldn’t happen if we lost…

You know about our goalkeeper Vozinha? Man, he was like a father to me.

I kept dodging with the ball. Pedro, our coach, was there. I don’t know, I asked him if I’d be there against Argentina. I noticed he was much less focused on me and the other boys.

Vozinha came in. He said(In Creole), “Ey man, it’s 12 a.m. You still here?”

I said, “Coach told me to run this back and forth.”

He said, “An RB, ain’t you?”

I said, “Yeah.”

He said, “Steven told me you played in friendlies against, ahh, Brazil?”

I said, “Yeah, two months ago.”

He said, “How was it?”

I said, “I barely touched the ball, and Suzuki or something pushed me miles across the ground.”

He laughed and said, “But you managed to defend well, right?”

I said, “Sure! I train most of the time with Pina. Pedro made me just steal those balls. I can’t really name what I’m doing.”

He said, “No one always can name what they do. It’s football. Anyway, take care.”

I said, “Bye.” And he walked away.

A day passed. I went to the hotel where the rest of the team was. I put my head on the pillow. My mom called me. I answered.

She said, “Hey, honey!”

I said, “Hi.”

She said, “How are you? I really missed you here.”

I said, “I’m okay.”

She said, “How is football?”

I said, “It’s going well, very well actually.”

She said, “I’m very happy. Your dad said Cape Verde won. You will play against Argentina, right?”

I said, “Yeah, I mean…”

She said, “I didn’t see you on TV yet.”

I said, “Pedro didn’t choose me yet.”

She said, “Oh, as a player?”

I said, “He didn’t choose me yet, as a substitute.”

She said, “Oh, but he will! Right?”

I said, “I don’t know really.”

She said, “I don’t care. I just want my Nelo to come home! I want to hug him. I miss you.”

I said, “I miss you too, Mom.”

She said, “Good night! God bless you, babe.” She ended the call.

I woke up. It was July 1st, three days to go. I ate some weird vegetable plate Pedro instructed us to eat. It sucked. Imagine, I was supposed to not eat anything else unless he instructed it. I walked to the training ground and began training early. Pina would likely wake up soon so we could train 1v1.

He came in with the coach. I felt some tension while they were talking.

Pedro said, “I can’t believe you shared a video of our absolute plan!”

Pina said, “It wasn’t that much. You just said Mendes won’t score.”

Pedro said, “That was literally everything, and I don’t know what I’m doing right now. You just ruined it. Now delete the fucking video!”

Pina said, “I did already.”

Pedro said, “I don’t know how a team like this is literally in the World Cup, how nobody ever told you that was stupid! What did you want? Likes and follows??”

Pina kept silent. Pedro noticed me. “What are you looking at? Go wait there. We’ll train later, or hit the ball or whatever.”

I said, “Okay.”

A player came in, and we began doing some training. Maybe an hour later, coach came back and gathered us. He said,

“Okay, as I said yesterday, this match is not about you.”

He paused, letting the words settle. His eyes swept over each of us.

“It’s completely and fully about Argentina. It’s not about how good you are; it’s just about understanding how they move.”

He took a breath, rubbing his chin.

“And to be honest, they are too exposed, but also too cautious.”

Silence. He looked down at his clipboard, then back up.

“Yes, we are not better than Argentina. We will never be. But we’re good at one thing, and we did it many times and we can do it again and again: attrition.”

He hesitated, as if weighing his next words carefully.

“There is no draw anymore. It’s all about penalty kicks and resistance. We can score a goal. I think Martinez won’t expect the move we’re planning, and I won’t say it out loud again.”

He stopped, stared at the ground for a moment, then continued.

“But I don’t think we can score more than once. After the 90th minute, I know each one of you, and of course I know Argentina, and I know you can reach penalties.”

He let that hang in the air.

“And you know how good we are at penalties. That’s it.”

Another pause, longer this time. He scratched the back of his neck.

“In the coming days, Vozinha, don’t stop blocking balls. I know exactly what you need. Pina, Monteiro, the whole match is all about you passing the ball to Semedo to get that single goal we need.”

He looked at each of them, then nodded slowly.

“And that’s it. Resume training.”

I kept playing, having duels with other players. I saw Pedro talking with Vozinha. I approached them.

Pedro said, “Pina? Who told him to leave?”

Vozinha said, “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just taking a rest.”

Pedro said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with that guy.” He noticed me. “Hey kid, if you’re done, I need you to hit Vozinha’s goal. Run toward the middle, then hit the ball into the right or left corner. Keep doing that with him for the next 30 minutes. Try to make it hard on Vozinha, because it’s going to be.”

I said, “Sure.” And he walked away. Vozinha walked to the goal. What was happening with Pina? Anyway…

I began running toward him, firing balls. I hit the first on the exact corner; he couldn’t get it.

He said, “Damn, Messi won’t get it like that.”

I said, “Unless he had the chance.”

We tried again. I hit it again to the middle; he got it. Again and again. I wondered which was harder to block, a penalty kick or a running ball.

We finished the training. I walked to the cafeteria to eat the weird stuff we were supposed to eat. I still didn’t see Pina there.

It was July 2nd. Oh damn, my bones hurt a bit when I woke up. I felt like I was in my forties. Was that what they felt when they woke up every day?

I ate the food, did some running. I never saw Pina. I just saw Monteiro talking with Pedro. I walked past them and heard Pedro say, “He’s being annoying. Tell him it doesn’t matter, it’s fine.”

Monteiro said, “I don’t know. I’ll try with him.”

It was July 3rd. Pina was back. I trained with him now, but a teammate told me the coach wanted to talk with me and another player.

I went to Pedro. He said, “Boys, how is it going?” I nodded.

He said, “I doubt Pina will play much tomorrow. Carlo, you may play after the 20th minute, right back. I need to decide if that’s right in those minutes. Nelo, if Carlo struggles, gets injured, or gets tired, you may play after him. You too, practice duels. As I told you, I will check on you tomorrow. That’s all you need.”

I slept that night exhausted. I felt I was ready. I could do it! I could handle Messi, or at least I knew how.

I woke up. Were we supposed to play today? But it was July 4th… Wait, oh, I got it. It was finally July 3rd. I think my phone settings were messed up; I had set it to the Middle East or something instead of USA.

It was 9 a.m. I began practicing duels with all the other defenders and attackers. Each one had their own schedules. Coach told us more about Messi until it was 2 p.m., four hours to go. He clapped and said, “Boys, let’s go. We have to go early this time. Get your stuff ready.” God, I was trembling.

---

We finally reached the stadium in Miami—huge, glowing, shaking with noise! I took a picture for my mom, and she called almost immediately. “Awww! My baby is on TV!”

“You see me!?” I shouted.

She laughed. “Barely! What was his name, Massa?”

“Messi!” I said.

She yelled, “Make that Messi cry!” I promised her she’d be proud—if I played. Then I hung up, put my phone in a locker, and stepped onto the grass. The warm-up. 4:50 p.m. My legs were already burning just from sprinting back and forth. I couldn’t stop moving. Breathe, Nelo. Breathe.

At 5:30, I saw him. Messi. In real life he was smaller than I imagined, but sharper, and my heart just… stopped. I was 5’6”. He was still taller than me. I felt the whole planet watching. We sang the anthem. I sat on the bench. The whistle screamed. It had begun!

Two minutes. TWO MINUTES. Martinez smashed our crossbar—I swear I felt the metal shake in my bones. Corner for them. My hands were sweating, my throat dry. I gripped the bench.

Ten minutes in, Argentina were all over us, three shots, wave after wave, and I couldn’t look away. Pina dueled De Paul… fell. Stayed down. … Oh no. Carlo started warming up, and my stomach flipped. The game was inching closer to me.

Carlo came on and—wow—he was amazing! He faced Messi, almost stole the ball, but Argentina kept it. Still 0-0 at thirty minutes. I kept whispering, “Hold on… hold on… hold on…”

Then Messi scored. … Of course he scored. 1-0. I looked at Pedro—he was just chilling, calm, and I wanted to scream. Five minutes later Martinez put it in again. … It’s over. It’s over.

Then—OFFSIDE! The flag was up! Oh god, I couldn’t breathe. We were still alive. Halftime came, and hope burned in my chest like fire.

…

In the locker room, Pedro walked in tight circles, his footsteps heavy. Nobody spoke. He breathed in deep, then exploded.

“Damn it! Semedo…”

Semedo: “Yes, sir.”

Pedro: “Why!? You were about to get it! Just dive into there, shoot the air—I don’t care—at least shoot! I promise no one would ever mock any one of you.” … He paused, looking around at each of us. “You need to understand something… You’re expected to lose. There is nothing embarrassing about losing a ball, nothing embarrassing about losing a penalty. There is no reason to stress up! No one will blame you, ever, never. You’re playing against the best. Why do you care!? They are the ones under extreme stress. … What about you!? You’re supposed to be chilling.”

He let the silence hang. Someone sniffed. Pedro’s voice softened a little.

“You know what? I don’t care if you lose. I don’t care at all. I did a very great job because you’re here. I’m proud already, even if you scored on your own goal, I don’t care. Diney, if you had the ball and accidentally scored on us, I don’t care. I won’t ever mock you, because I’m already relaxed, and proud of you. … So why do you care? Just play. Take it as an opportunity. There is no reason to stress up. Let’s all agree—we’re all celebrating qualification to this level at the World Cup, even if Argentina win 20-0, sin(Yes)?”

We all breathed together and said, “Sin.”

He nodded slowly. “No, just play as best as you can. And nobody is watching.”

…

I ran back out for the second half, and something had shifted. I wasn’t terrified anymore. I was buzzing. Light. Electric.

We had the ball. WE had it! Then the 55th minute—corner. A push, a tangle, a whistle—PENALTY! Oh my god! I couldn’t look. I looked. GOOOOOAL! Semedo buried it! 1-1! I was up, screaming, crying, hugging everyone in reach! It was REAL!

But the danger came again fast. Argentina hit our crossbar—BAM!—my heart nearly flew out of my chest. Vozinha saved four, FOUR impossible shots. 63rd minute. Carlo went down trying to block a ball.

Pedro snapped: “Nelo, warm up.”

“I’m getting in?” My voice cracked.

“At the 80th—GO GO GO!”

… I ran. Along the sideline, the crowd roaring, my legs trembling. 75 minutes. … 80 minutes. Then he called me. I was ON.

Right back. Against Messi. Against Martinez. I couldn’t breathe. Martinez ran at me—terrifyingly fast. I don’t know what happened. My leg just kicked the air to the left… he dodged exactly that way… I stole the ball! I played it to Monteiro. Did that really just happen?! … Breathe.

85th minute. We passed, we lost it, we scrambled. Then Messi ran AT ME. My heart exploded. I just traced him, shadowed him, breathing in little gasps. He stopped—I shifted—a teammate came. Messi still nutmegged him in a blink, but we recovered! I got the ball… passed to Monteiro…

Then—89th minute. Oh my days. L. Martinez had the ball, so casual, placing it down to clear… and SEMEDO WAS RIGHT THERE. He pounced. He scored. 2-1. WHAAAAAT!! I screamed so loud I lost my voice. We mobbed him, jumping, crying, howling. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

…

But it wasn’t over. Eight minutes added. … Eight more minutes of my life. Argentina came at us like a storm. Messi ran at me again. I traced him, breathing hard, but he read me this time—cut to the corner—I slid, put it out. Two shots in two minutes. Messi’s face was pure fury. I’ve never seen anything so terrifying.

Corner. Cleared. Another corner. Cleared. We held the ball in their half for three glorious minutes. … Then Martinez broke free—faster than anyone—passed me like I wasn’t there—shot—VOZINHA SAVED IT! I almost fainted.

Another corner. Three minutes left. … Messi crossed. Martinez headed. A teammate blocked with his chest. De Paul fought it back to Messi. I was planted at the right post. Messi slipped through two defenders… lifted the ball high… so high… toward the far corner. Vozinha was nowhere near it. The ball floated. … I jumped. I raised my hand. I smacked it away.

…

The whistle. Red card. The whole stadium roared “BOOOOOO!” and I walked off, heart pounding so loud I heard nothing else. Locker room. TV on. Messi, on the penalty spot, furious beyond words.

He ran up and struck it… slow. Soft. VOZINHA GOT IT! I fell to my knees in the empty room, screaming alone.

Corner. Chaos. Cleared. Cleared again. Two minutes of hoofing the ball anywhere, anywhere away. Then the final whistle. THREE TIMES. It was over. … It was over!

My teammates found me in the tunnel, carried me out, jumping, wailing, crying. Pedro screamed everyone away, hugged me so tight: “I don’t know how I’m even supposed to be angry! … That’s my boy, that’s my boy.” Vozinha grabbed my shoulder, tears streaming: “Know one thing, please. You did nothing wrong there.” The referee told us I was out of the tournament. Pedro waved it off: “Alright, yeah, whatever.”

…

We celebrated for hours—them drinking and jumping, surrounded by family. I couldn’t drink, I was underage, but I didn’t need to. I was drunk on everything else. Then the noise began to fade. The locker room quieted. I sat alone, replaying every scene, and the worst images were the Argentina fans—their faces twisted with something I couldn’t name. I was curious, and I hated my curiosity, about how much hate a person could put on me.

I threw on a light jacket, heading for the door. Pedro spotted me.

“Hey kid, where you going?”

“Getting some snacks. I’m out of the tournament though.” … My voice felt thin.

He said, “Okay, I mean, I can call someone else to do it for you.”

“Why? I can just go.”

He kept silent for a moment. “Not in Miami, not anymore. Just stay here. Watch Colombia and Ghana playing now.”

“I can just walk by myself.” I was already stepping forward.

He physically stopped me, hand firm on my chest. … His eyes were different now. Serious. “Listen. I think I’m not being clear enough.”

… I waited. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not safe. It’s absolutely not.”

I didn’t argue. Something in his voice ended the sentence. I nodded and sat back down, my heart beating slow and heavy.

…

It had been three hours since the win. The world outside was still spinning. My phone buzzed. Mom. Finally. I trembled a little, answered, and heard her crying.

“Mom? You’re okay?”

“Honey, is that you? Are you okay?” Her voice broke.

“Yes, I’m totally fine. Are you, Mommy?”

She sobbed. “They’re hating on you! Why they say things! They make videos and…”

My father in the background: “Lena, it’s okay, calm down.”

“Why do they hate on Nelo!? Why!”

… I closed my eyes. Breathe. “Mom, I’m alright, whatever they say.”

“No! You’re going home now! I already read a comment, before it got banned, threatening they will rape you! Just before it got deleted, I don’t care about fucking football! You’re getting home now!”

“Mom, listen, but—”

“SHUT UP. You’re getting back to Cape Verde at least tomorrow. I’m calling your coach now. Bye.” She ended the call.

…

I tried to sleep that night. I couldn’t. The ceiling was too white, the room too quiet. I kept reaching for my phone, then pulling my hand back. What did they really say? Were Argentina fans that crazy? … I never opened the apps. I just lay there, breathing, breathing, the mark on my hand still fresh.

One day. Two. I finally flew back to Cape Verde, to Ribeira Grande on Santo Antão. The plane touched down and the heat hit me like a hug. My mom saw me and pounced—kissing, hugging, crying. I stayed cold and calm, but she never was. My dad burst in yelling, excited, slapping my back, shoving a cake into my hands. My little sister, finally, looked proud to be a Cape Verdean girl. I sat that whole day telling them my “adventures” in Miami, the words tumbling out, and they laughed and gasped and held me tighter.

The days at home passed slow. I still hadn’t opened social media, but I heard enough from my dad, and the football analysts on TV had already given their word. It was July 7th, 2026. I sat on the couch, watching Cape Verde lose the Round of 16 match against Egypt. Salah celebrated his second goal at the dead end of the second half. I just looked down at my T-shirt: my name, the flag, the number 25.

Lena(My mom) asked from the kitchen doorway, her voice soft: “Honey, do you regret that?”

I never answered. I just looked at my hand—the ball’s mark still stamped on the dusty skin, a mark I would never wash.

Clay Smith was born on April 3, 1901, in or near Tallahassee, Leon County, Florida, to Elie Smith. He had at least one older sister, Bella, who was old enough by 1913 to act as his legal guardian. Their father is absent from all records — whether by death, departure, or circumstance, the family was composed of Elie and her children, and they managed.

Clay’s early years were ordinary. He played with toys, wore the simple clothes of a rural Southern boy, and grew up in a world still lit by kerosene and horse hooves. By age 12, in 1913, his mother Elie formally granted him a small piece of land — in Tallahassee — appointing Bella as his guardian to hold it for him. The deed described him as “Clay Smith, infant,” a child with a future already marked out in property lines.

But Clay was restless and romantic. He and a neighbor girl, Emma Doe, born March 5, 1900, became inseparable. They read romance stories together and believed in them. They believed they were old enough to choose their own lives. Sometime in 1914, when Clay was 13 and Emma 14, they ran away. Clay left his family’s home and never contacted them again. His sister Bella, his guardian, would later tell her own daughter that Clay had “fled away with a girl he loved.” The family never saw him again.

The two teenagers settled at Emma’s residence — a small property in Tallahassee that she owned through her grandfather. They kept house together, alone, playing at adulthood with no grown-ups to stop them. They had no money, no reputation, no safety net. They had each other.

On January 1, 1915, Clay began a diary. His first entry was self-conscious and hopeful:

It’s January the 1st, 1915, I felt a new year is the best way to start an entry. I don’t know what I’m going to write here but I think I need someone to talk to, even if myself. I hope Emma won’t read that one day…

Underneath it, in a different handwriting, Emma later added a teasing note: “Haha I did.” She found the diary, read it, and loved him enough to leave her mark on his private words. They were playful, intimate, and unguarded. For a while, they were happy.

The diary continued through 1915, 1916, 1917, and into the spring of 1918. Clay wrote about their days: small arguments, shared meals, the fear of being discovered, the thrill of freedom. There were entries about the weather, about books they read aloud to each other, about the way Emma laughed. There may have been entries where Emma herself took the pen. The diary became a shared object, a record of two young lives deliberately built apart from the world.

Then, in early May 1918, the Spanish flu found them.

The pandemic swept across Florida with terrifying speed. Clay fell ill first. He developed a fever, a cough, and the rapid, suffocating pneumonia that characterized the deadliest strain. He took to bed. Emma nursed him, alone in that small house, with no doctor, no hospital, no medicine beyond cool water and her own hands.

Clay knew he was dying. In the last paragraph he ever wrote, his handwriting weak and barely legible, he poured out everything he had left:

I’m likely going to die, the Spanish thing doesn’t ask about age, or love; I’m barely writing that, but I’m afraid Emma would hurt herself. God, she deserves more, let me die, I don’t care. But please, Emma, go ahead, forget about me; or don’t, but don’t deprive yourself a long life you can enjoy, I promise I will be just a boy you cared about one day, and that’s it…

He was sixteen or seventeen years old. His last thought was not for his own pain, but for her. He tried to release her, to give her a future without guilt. He told her he would become just a memory, a boy she once cared about, and nothing more. He begged her not to hurt herself. He wrote it down so she would find it, because he could no longer speak.

Clay Smith died within a day or two of writing those words, in the first week of May 1918.

Emma did not — could not — obey his wish. She found his body. She closed his diary. She contacted someone, perhaps a lawyer or a neighbor, and wrote her own will. In it, she gave instructions: she wanted both of them buried beside the house where they had lived. She referred to the male deceased simply as “Clay.” She left no doubt about who he was, or where he belonged.

On May 7, 1918, Emma Doe died by suicide at Capital Hospital in Tallahassee. The cause was severe head trauma. She was eighteen years old.

A coroner examined both deaths. The male body, already decomposing and unrecognizable, was estimated to have died of the Spanish flu. Emma’s will was honored. The two teenagers were buried together beside the residence, along with their belongings — toys from Clay’s childhood, their clothes, and the diary that held their voices. The grave was unmarked. The world moved on. The 1918 pandemic swept millions into unremembered graves, and Clay and Emma became two more lost names.

Clay’s family never learned what happened. Bella, his sister, eventually married and had a daughter of her own. She grew old telling the story of the brother who ran away for love and was never heard from again. Her daughter, in turn, grew old and told her own son — Clay’s great-nephew — the same story. The small piece of land, Lot B132, sat in Clay’s name for over a century, untended, unclaimed, a silent monument to a boy who never came back.

In 2026, the great-nephew, now 76 years old, asked for a death certificate so he could finally settle the estate. A missing-person investigation began. An officer pulled the 1913 deed, the census records, the guardianship file. A search for Emma Doe turned up her death certificate and the coroner’s record, which spoke of an unidentified male body and a burial of both lovers. Archaeologists were called. They found the grave, undisturbed, beside the ruined house on Emma’s land.

Inside the grave, they recovered two skeletons and a diary.

The diary began with a boy starting a new year full of hope. It ended with a dying child begging the girl he loved to live. In between, it held the entire story of a life that was short, hard, hidden, and fiercely loving.

Clay Smith, born April 3, 1901, died of the Spanish flu in May 1918. He was buried by the girl he loved, who could not leave him. His name is no longer forgotten. His voice is no longer silent.

A year ago, I had an interview for my nursing program, and they asked me a lot of critical thinking questions; most of them were obvious, but maybe I struggled in this one for the lack of experience at the time.

So she said(The interviewer): Imagine you were walking down the corridor, then you heard an explosion, you ran to the place and saw someone laying on the ground, not moving.

What is your first instinct? What would you do just FIRST.

I said: I would immediately activate emergency.

She said: Imagine you’re alone and you have to do something anyways, it’s just you and the patient at the moment.

I said: Then I have to check on them, vitals(I likely meant pulse and respiration) and ABCs.

She said(Indignantly): Checking the vitals is the first thing you would do? So you will approach them?

I said: Maybe CPR, like if they need it.

She said: Anything else?

I said: I don’t think I can touch them.

She said: Okay, why?

Me(Frankly): I would, talk with them?

She said: Talk!? Okay let’s move on; you will learn anyways.

And yeah…

But now, I think I know what I believe was the answer, but I want to see what would nurses say(Or do).

Who are you? Mohammed…

Chapter One: Oh....I know, I know!..M..maybe?

When I was little, in kindergarten, I used to play with blocks a lot, and I was creative in building and varied my constructions.

My mom said: Son, you look like an engineer!
I said: What’s an engineer?
She said: He’s the one who builds houses, and he’s very smart!
I said: Really! Then I’ll be that when I grow up!

My mom smiled at this statement. I began to imagine myself as a builder, placing stone upon stone, and I didn’t understand at all that engineering was far from just stacking rocks on top of each other by hand... but I was convinced by the word (engineering).

One day in the classroom, the caregiver approached me.

She said: Son, what will you be?
I said: An engineer! I build things!
She said: Masha’Allah!

And she took a paper and wrote next to my name: Architect...

I didn’t know why, until I later learned that they were preparing for a career party, giving each of us a gift related to what they aspired to be. They gave me a box with building toys.

I said to myself: This is what I need!

I was happy, hitting with that hammer everywhere, as if I were fixing the things my mom and dad had broken....

Chapter Two: No... I was lying!...

Yes, grade 1. I had set one specific answer to the question: What do you want to be when you grow up? The answer, of course: Builder!... That same answer hasn't and won't change, I think...

I didn’t think about it much, and that’s what characterized that phase. I wasn’t studying to become something; I was studying because I had to, in any case...

Year after year, this rule remained entrenched. And this boy, if he wasn’t busy with studying, he was busy with playing, whatever kind it was...

When I was in third grade, an art teacher entered, looking angry.

He said: Ask about me! I am the one whom, whoever didn’t respect me, I failed him for years and "carved" his name on the desk!
I said to myself: What’s with this man? Drawing is the most banal hobby anyway...

He gave us papers and said: Draw! You’re in third grade, you’re "my heroes"... or maybe not... but you are big!

That affected me, so I began to draw seriously. I took the ruler and the colors I had never held with interest before. I focused my gaze like an artist, and I started feeling a little drawn to it... until I finished, and the result was!...

"Disappointing"... Even with the creativity present, the smoothness of my hand was and still is not helpful. The drawing, though not enough to impress the teacher, was enough to make my classmate say: Your drawing is beautiful...

And although this was just a passing compliment, it was at the same time a launchpad for a new passion! To hell with the engineer!

I went back home and started drawing as if it was the first time I tried a brush and watercolors. I painted and drew until my mom started noticing the decrease in the number of printer papers. Where did they disappear? She enters my room to find it filled with various colors and worn-out sketchbooks. I started visiting different grocery stores and comparing colors. And yet, with all that, I didn’t reach a real "talent" worth mentioning. But this passion made the title (the artist) part of my name... I mean, for one month until I forgot all about it.

Even though this phase didn’t mean a complete shift, it produced a space of confusion.

Finally I started asking: Who am I really?...

But my mind, by nature then, was at ease with clarity, so the answer gave me comfort and a reason for any action I did.

So I would say: No, I must be something...

If someone asked me then about my ambition, my answer would be hesitant.

Sometimes I’d answer: Engineer...
Sometimes: Artist...
And sometimes: Creator... of content?

Chapter Three: I... a genius!!

One day, the boy was sitting playing with blocks with his baby siblings to entertain them. My father entered with a huge box wrapped in a gift bag. I was happy!...

Dad was looking at me and smiling. I had seen this moment many times in cartoons. I knew what was in there! A gaming console, the thing I remember causing Dad so many "headaches" from my requests for it.

Crying, pleading, grades, promises, everything you could want! For this moment... And for me, this wasn’t just a gaming console; it was a whole world that never ended! Because that boy didn’t even own a phone, or a working tablet like most kids today, and suddenly he was holding what half the children in the world wished for...

I started exploring the game discs one by one, and I didn't get bored for weeks. All my time was in front of that screen. And if I left the house, I didn’t go out of love for the park, but because my cousin had a disc that wasn’t in my collection. So you’d see me go there with a hidden agenda, under the pretense of: a visit...

The boy kept playing whenever he got the chance, and his worst obstacle was the restrictions his parents imposed regarding time and other duties... This sounds familiar...

One day, the boy was browsing YouTube from the home computer. He found a clip of a man playing his favorite game and commenting while playing. It greatly captured his interest.

He said to himself: I can do that!

He grabbed a recording device and was talking while playing, to the point that his parents thought he had gone mad! When he finished the clip, he discovered that his voice wasn’t heard because he needed: a "microphone"...

He said: These are things for rich people...

He published a number of videos of his character walking and exploring the game world. He started imagining himself as a "celebrity," everyone wanting to take photos with him, and that his friends at school would give him unparalleled attention. He closed his eyes that night, hoping that the video would reach his parents, and they’d be shocked by the amount of money their smart son would earn!

A week passed... two weeks... a month... two months... two years...

The total views on his channel didn’t exceed a thousand, and that thousand was from him when he would go to the videos page and reload it to increase the views. What a poor soul! Hundreds of videos and memories, no one knew about them except him and those friends who participated in filming them. But perhaps he learned a lot...(Continued in comments)

We all have that inner monologue where our brains judge our beliefs by comparing them to others—especially when we notice how far our views are from what they could ever think or hear. This often throws us into doubt: does what we believe represent the truth? But how could it, if it's impossible for someone to reach it alone? Is that the "Truth" you believe your god wants you to seek?

Some argue that true belief is something you will find even without guidance or prior knowledge—something built into you that you will instinctively ask about. This usually takes the form of "Who made us?" and "Why are we here?" Asking those questions implies you know there is an answer, and dismissing them would feel unnatural.

That's fine, but how could instinct lead you to very specific, procedural acts of worship—prayers, reading a book, or following a specific person's orders? The answer lies in your environment. Were you born into a religious culture that already demands those beliefs and acts? That will positively affect your insight (unfair, right?). Thus, your faith is judged relative to others in the same exact environment, not literally compared to someone who has never heard of it. Were you born somewhere built to directly contradict that specific belief? Still, how do you lean toward that other belief compared to the people around you? That is how you're judged.

"Judged"—who makes the judgment? What we're discussing here isn't how people decide your destiny (Heaven/Hell), but just how it "works." If you're a believer, it's how your god will judge you.

And here comes the core idea: why does distance matter? Someone on earth believes in a book that only they read, and worships a god or gods that only they follow, yet truly believes it from the bottom of their heart. That is simply the Mere-exposure effect: the more you're exposed to something, the more you're likely to believe it. Exposure often begins with a small, specific stimulus (e.g., a spiritual experience as a child), and afterward, you deliberately perpetuate the exposure to build more faith and confidence.

So why might you feel that doubt while the effect is already taking place? Because you're going through different and mixed phases of exposure, which can confuse your belief. This is very common for university students, those abroad, or people deeply immersed in social media. Seeing realities far removed from your own exposure can make you feel out of place, and may eventually lead you to doubt your belief—even without intellectually challenging your thoughts. You might unconsciously slip into believing the opposite, as if proving your old views wrong.

What I'm saying here is neutral and double-edged. It suggests that those who change religion or quit may not be fully rational; it could be a feeling rather than an evidence-based conclusion. It also questions whether a believer would hold the same beliefs if they were born a foreigner. Religious people might argue that it is you who deliberately adjusts the exposure, making yourself confident with what feels "okay"—serving your desires, which could be malicious or righteous.

I wrote this in a flow state; I want to know what you think about it.

Who are you? Mohammed…

Chapter One: Oh....I know, I know!..M..maybe?

When I was little, in kindergarten, I used to play with blocks a lot, and I was creative in building and varied my constructions.

My mom said: Son, you look like an engineer!
I said: What’s an engineer?
She said: He’s the one who builds houses, and he’s very smart!
I said: Really! Then I’ll be that when I grow up!

My mom smiled at this statement. I began to imagine myself as a builder, placing stone upon stone, and I didn’t understand at all that engineering was far from just stacking rocks on top of each other by hand... but I was convinced by the word (engineering).

One day in the classroom, the caregiver approached me.

She said: Son, what will you be?
I said: An engineer! I build things!
She said: Masha’Allah!

And she took a paper and wrote next to my name: Architect...

I didn’t know why, until I later learned that they were preparing for a career party, giving each of us a gift related to what they aspired to be. They gave me a box with building toys.

I said to myself: This is what I need!

I was happy, hitting with that hammer everywhere, as if I were fixing the things my mom and dad had broken....

Chapter Two: No... I was lying!...

Yes, first grade. I had set one specific answer to the question: What do you want to be when you grow up? The answer, of course: Builder!... That same answer hasn't and won't change, I think...

I didn’t think about it much, and that’s what characterized that phase. I wasn’t studying to become something; I was studying because I had to, in any case...

Year after year, this rule remained entrenched. And this boy, if he wasn’t busy with studying, he was busy with playing, whatever kind it was...

When I was in third grade, an art teacher entered, looking angry.

He said: Ask about me! I am the one whom, whoever didn’t respect me, I failed him for years and "carved" his name on the desk!
I said to myself: What’s with this man? Drawing is the most banal hobby anyway...

He gave us papers and said: Draw! You’re in third grade, you’re "my heroes"... or maybe not... but you are big!

That affected me, so I began to draw seriously. I took the ruler and the colors I had never held with interest before. I focused my gaze like an artist, and I started feeling a little drawn to it... until I finished, and the result was!...

"Disappointing"... Even with the creativity present, the smoothness of my hand was and still is not helpful. The drawing, though not enough to impress the teacher, was enough to make my classmate say: Your drawing is beautiful...

And although this was just a passing compliment, it was at the same time a launchpad for a new passion! To hell with the engineer!

I went back home and started drawing as if it was the first time I tried a brush and watercolors. I painted and drew until my mom started noticing the decrease in the number of printer papers. Where did they disappear? She enters my room to find it filled with various colors and worn-out sketchbooks. I started visiting different grocery stores and comparing colors. And yet, with all that, I didn’t reach a real "talent" worth mentioning. But this passion made the title (the artist) part of my name... I mean, for one month until I forgot all about it.

Even though this phase didn’t mean a complete shift, it produced a space of confusion.

Finally I started asking: Who am I really?...

But my mind, by nature then, was at ease with clarity, so the answer gave me comfort and a reason for any action I did.

So I would say: No, I must be something...

If someone asked me then about my ambition, my answer would be hesitant.

Sometimes I’d answer: Engineer...
Sometimes: Artist...
And sometimes: Creator... of content?

Chapter Three: I... a genius!!

One day, the boy was sitting playing with blocks with his baby siblings to entertain them. My father entered with a huge box wrapped in a gift bag. I was happy!...

Dad was looking at me and smiling. I had seen this moment many times in cartoons. I knew what was in there! A gaming console, the thing I remember causing Dad so many "headaches" from my requests for it.

Crying, pleading, grades, promises, everything you could want! For this moment... And for me, this wasn’t just a gaming console; it was a whole world that never ended! Because that boy didn’t even own a phone, or a working tablet like most kids today, and suddenly he was holding what half the children in the world wished for...

I started exploring the game discs one by one, and I didn't get bored for weeks. All my time was in front of that screen. And if I left the house, I didn’t go out of love for the park, but because my cousin had a disc that wasn’t in my collection. So you’d see me go there with a hidden agenda, under the pretense of: a visit...

The boy kept playing whenever he got the chance, and his worst obstacle was the restrictions his parents imposed regarding time and other duties... This sounds familiar...

One day, the boy was browsing YouTube from the home computer. He found a clip of a man playing his favorite game and commenting while playing. It greatly captured his interest.

He said to himself: I can do that!

He grabbed a recording device and was talking while playing, to the point that his parents thought he had gone mad! When he finished the clip, he discovered that his voice wasn’t heard because he needed: a "microphone"...

He said: These are things for rich people...

He published a number of videos of his character walking and exploring the game world. He started imagining himself as a "celebrity," everyone wanting to take photos with him, and that his friends at school would give him unparalleled attention. He closed his eyes that night, hoping that the video would reach his parents, and they’d be shocked by the amount of money their smart son would earn!

A week passed... two weeks... a month... two months... two years...

The total views on his channel didn’t exceed a thousand, and that thousand was from him when he would go to the videos page and reload it to increase the views. What a poor soul! Hundreds of videos and memories, no one knew about them except him and those friends who participated in filming them. But perhaps he learned a lot...

Chapter Four: Maturity?... Some of it...

Years passed, and here was the boy in middle school, raising his head that he had finally become "big" for the thousandth time...

The first days of school were just very deep contemplation, not about life and goals, but about the brown trousers I was now wearing as a middle school student...

Until I came home one day and heard my mother talking with my sister about a Quranic verse and its interpretation. That lad was of sound innate nature, still young, so he felt the inherent duty to seek religious understanding, and guilt that he didn’t understand this conversation. He never excused himself with: I’m still young... Instead, as usual, he whipped himself without mercy.

So he opened the Quran, and said: The Quran is for everyone, even if I can barely read Al-Fatihah... I can finish it!

The boy started reading, indeed. His mistakes were many, endless in Tajweed and recitation. He didn’t fulfill this promise to himself until months later, due to the difficulty of reading. Until his mother noticed his interest and rushed to the nearest Quran memorization center. From there, he truly began to learn, and immersed himself in the world of interpretation, then from that to branches, then sects and various religions... The boy actually belonged to a socially persecuted sect, and after he became "certain" of the credibility of its claims, he learned that he must arm himself with knowledge to fight the ideas and ignorance spread about his sect and its followers. He learned the art of dialogue from various debates between sects and religions. He learned reading and deduction from various Hadith books and investigators. He learned writing and argumentative expression from his participation in forum confrontations...

Only a year passed, he entered the second year of middle school. He came down from his room, and gave his mother a clear statement:

He said: Mama, I think I’ve chosen...
She said: What do you mean, son?
He said: If I’m going to study anything, I won’t study anything but religion at university...

His mother frowned after this talk. He was surprised within himself; his mother was the most religious person he knew, and everything he had was from her!

So I asked her: Mama, why this expression?...
She said: It’s not easy to study religion the way you want, son, especially at university. It will never give you what you’re looking for... Forget it. Religion is from sound innate nature; its truthfulness does not require academic study...

Here, the boy realized for a moment, if Islamic religion taught him one thing, it is submission to God always in everything and every matter. And submission, in its ways, does not "require" perfect, comprehensive knowledge of its fundamentals and branches. Perhaps what is required is the intention and direction in every act and good...

Yes, although this part of the story does not determine the career path he follows (Sheikh-religious scholar), it will certainly explain it, whatever it may be! For if religion isn’t the very steps of his future, it is the reason for them, even if it is never referred to again...

Chapter Five: What I want... I think...

That foolish lad started to become a little more active. For a while now, he has realized what awareness means, or something of it. He still spends most of his free time on video games, browsing, and some reading if he bothers a little...

Oh, he really became big this time... M...maybe. He started to grow a mustache! A bit late, but why not...

Ninth grade, the place I had always heard legends about, a place of troublemaking, adolescence, and dominance. We are the eldest here! Our height is indeed that of teachers. Our respect is obligatory...

Perhaps the nature of this place awakened a strange flame in the boy's chest. He sees an astonishing disparity in the behaviors of those around him: a student who dominates everyone except his own tongue, another always alone and cannot bear mixing, and another you find always thinking and observing people in a strange way... Oh, excuse me...

That's him.

When he was put in a situation with a student who competed with or challenged him with hurtful intent, his mind wasn’t occupied with: He's challenging me!

But rather, uniquely: Why does he act like this?

He started analyzing the various types of behavior of his classmates a lot, determining if the environment was a fundamental factor in the development of these behaviors, and if the environment was the very means that led him himself to think about the environment!

And this made his mind burn a little. The fool wasn’t used to this amount of thinking, but he became attached to it. You’d see him holding his head so it wouldn’t fall from the weight of thoughts, not while studying or taking an exam or in a contemplation session, but while peeing in the bathroom... Yes, it’s the most suitable place to study upbringing... I think?

The boy started testing his inclinations secretly. Does he really like having a direct impact on people's lives? Or should the impact be a priority for his own life? Is he fit... to be a teacher?

He decided to test. He approached a teacher whom the school had tasked with supervising the young students during recess. The fourth grade, a place brimming with energy, even for an elderly person like a fourteen-year-old student!

The lad proposed that he give a lesson on how to create animations. The teacher liked the idea; finally, he wouldn't have to fill their recess with just boring videos about the dangers of reckless driving...

I got very excited about this idea. I didn’t prepare much, I didn’t even have an electronic lesson or PowerPoint... I entered the class, completely empty-handed, carrying nothing but a simple message of talents that I might discover in one of them...

The boy really lived his role. The age gap between him and his "students" gave him great confidence. No papers, no grades, no repelling formal language. A simple idea...

Frames, drawings, a simple program to learn, an example, some questions. And the students didn’t know where to find these things, from a boy who was supposed to be studying in another class, to a teacher giving them from his experience and discovering their talents?

They likely felt a mix of belonging and attraction, which made these twenty minutes, worthy of them calling him: Teacher! Whenever they saw him walking inside or outside the school...

The boy finished his class and exited to the applause of his young classmates. He left with another teacher, carrying in his pocket lectures of constructive criticism. But if there was something that truly built his ambition, it was a talent he helped someone discover in themselves... Who knows, perhaps the impact isn’t noticeable now? And this from just one lesson!? What if you did that every day??

This simple dose of enthusiasm strengthened another core essence within him: he would not be immortal. He would die one day, but immortality lies in one’s impact, not the permanence of one’s self... His educational, impactful inclinations completely shut his brain off for a period of time... Me?

... Teacher! Don’t argue with me...

Chapter Six: What they want... Sure!

High school... Oh dear... Alright, in the name of God...
Oh Helper...

In ninth grade, I was hiding inside myself what I saw as a loud ambition. But my society no longer expected that teacher from me. I mean, imagine...

This boy? Who spends his free time on games and the computer tirelessly, and is so used to technology that it became part of his definition... A teacher??

It would be a little strange... And strangely enough, the fool decided to surrender to the constraint of expectations in exchange for his ambition, which seemed completely clear to him...

He says: I will work in Artificial Intelligence engineering!...
And his inner voice rebukes him: I hate you!

And indeed, when he applied to high school, the first thing he thought of was an institute specialized in the technology industry.

He spoke to his mother with enthusiasm: Mom! Enroll me there! I see a bright future in that!...

His mother wasn’t shocked at all; rather, she supported him. She was used to seeing him program some games then, and learn a bit of web development if he bothered a little...

So what’s strange about this desire? Regular high school might not nurture this (talent)... Right?

The mother gladly submitted her son to that institute, and unfortun... I mean, unfortunately, the seats were already filled.

She said to him: Forgive me, son, I was late in registration. I’m sorry if that disappoints you...

He showed some expressions of despair then, and inside he was screaming: Yes!

Chapter Seven: This is what you asked for?... Take it!

Now, he will begin his journey of unifying the paths, like any normal student not hindered by the constraints of expectations... And that’s what he needs!

The boy grew up fearing this moment. Perhaps this was a real responsibility falling on his shoulders for the first time? The high school GPA literally determines your future, without exaggeration (or so he thought). He was confused at first, feeling that he was late in adapting to the new situation: the course system, GPAs, and specializations. Until he realized that these were just different labels for what he had lived before in middle school...

He felt for a moment that this exaggeration he had been seeing was just empty whining? Maybe not... It’s still too early to judge...

The boy had indeed become a seasoned behavioral environment scientist. He studied at the university of his mind and trained on the ground of his environment. So when he found himself in a class that almost didn’t see academic study as something life fundamentally depends on, and that trade and projects were the "core of wealth and cunning," an alarm bell rang in his mind: Beware! You will become one of them!...

So he tried to create his own environment, and felt loneliness, and that he was alone on this path. No one cares, about what I see as important?

That’s what I thought at first glance... But you learn, no one sits in the front rows except those who are there for a reason!

True friendship only begins "like this." I talked to that boy who was sitting to my right, and despite the clear differences between us, there was similarity!... And even after we later parted ways, he still visits me and I visit him, not for any reason, just for a sense of belonging... and sharing in the "estrangement"...

And one day I sat in front of one of them, I don’t remember how the friendship started, just... suddenly! We found no one but each other in this place...

Everyone says: Studying isn’t anything these days...
...! And yet we insist: Studying is everything

And I am still certain...

Had this estrangement not been broken, I would have broken in its place...

Chapter Eight: I am more than this...

The poor soul was still fighting expectations. He began not to even confess to himself his heartfelt desire to leave an impact... in education!...

No, no, I’m a software engineer...
Or maybe a network engineer...
Something... along those lines, not sure yet...
Education? What nonsense, for God’s sake??

One day, the boy looked at his class schedule for that day. He noticed that one way or another, all classes would be completely "empty," meaning seven hours of nothing. He looked to his right: his friend was busy preparing. He looked to his left: his other friend was deep in sleep. He had no one but them...

He looked around... the studious section was busy, and the reckless ones were crowded... What could he possibly do?

A boy like him couldn’t stand a second without saying a word or hearing a sound. He needed expression like a thirsty person needs water, so subconsciously, he took out a draft notebook, and started... writing?

He didn’t know what he was writing; he just wrote every letter that came to his mind at that moment. Even his desire to crush the tyrants of their class was expressed in verse...

He "satirized" them, without knowing the status of poetry in the world of literature. He finished his page, which you could feel the heat radiating from its meanings, but the problem... you couldn’t read it at all... That idiot’s handwriting was still like a child writing with his foot. But that didn’t stop him from sharing...

He noticed that the one supervising them now in class was an Arabic teacher.

The boy said to himself: Let me get his opinion, about this... masterpiece, perhaps?

He showed him the satirical poem.

He answered in a clear format: A good start...

That indeed encouraged him. And I’ll just point out, in the following years in high school, he studied prosody, memorized poems, wrote poems and narrated stories, and prepared a metered composition in the final year before graduation. He submitted his work to another teacher... What was the response?... "A good start" Haha, wait... that’s not funny...

In his first year, he felt he was inclined toward literature... Yes... I will be... a writer!... And a man of letters! To hell with education, programming, and engineering!

I am the genius writer and the rising philosopher!

But... what about a living, direct impact?... I don’t know... I’ll think...

The first year passed, a year of adaptation. Even though the boy barely studied, really... he was alongside his companion at the front of the class! No comparison at all; the majority here want only a certificate, while these two see the GPA as equivalent to the well-being of their lives!...

The boy was used to books of interpretation and scholarly debates, so the styles of school textbooks seemed almost banal and outdated compared to what he was used to (or that’s what he convinced himself to evade; what a naive person)...

He says: Nonsense! I’m smarter than this stupidity!

So he would procrastinate... and procrastinate... and procrastinate, until the last day, and the last hour, to finally study...

And with each exam, he gradually discovered that he wasn’t a genius; rather, his parents’ prayers granted him luck whose term doesn’t end with procrastination, called: Tawfiq (success granted by God)!

Although his GPA wasn’t very high, it was like a chance, to reassure him that obtaining what he wanted... was possible...

...Wait...

.....What did he want in the first place? I almost don’t understand myself now

Chapter Nine: Return... to the origin??... Which one?

The second year began, and the environment he had feared changed, and it became the class of his dreams. He chose the scientific track, not out of inclination... just because it was more diverse. He was still afraid... of a clear answer...

Those two young men who used to be at the top of the class? Now they are literally... nothing!

Just "amateurs" in the world of science. Everyone in the new class is running after grades and snatching them from you if they haven't stuffed their bellies with the full mark!

The atmosphere was purely competitive at first, and that pushed both of us to elevate our learning level to keep up with what’s happening here: Chemistry, Biology, Physics, Mathematics... Mathematics! Subjects that require persistence and continuity in receiving information from the first day until the final exam day, and even that won’t be enough unless you are lucky!

Nevertheless... no, I saw in this class more than just an open race for grades. Each of them, despite their differences, carried a unique essence. And you learn...

As time passed, people opened up to each other more. We shared the same students in the same class during the final year as well... which built a special relationship that helped me understand the personality aspects of everyone I knew...

Which created an environment for an old study I remember from middle school days..

Yes.... finally the educational sense returns once more, but... this time it was different...

Chapter Ten: No Title

Twelfth grade... Here is the crossroads, no room to run away... You must choose!...

Or maybe I’m exaggerating. There’s still a year of learning? That’s plenty... I have time...

I started the year, I studied seriously indeed. And the studying wasn’t because I understood its importance... but just to escape the torment of choice. But at least... I was clear.

Finally I shouted: I will join the Teachers' College!...

Yes, everyone heard: my mom, my dad, my siblings, the school, our district representative, and even our maid...

The young man is not a programmer... nor an artist nor an engineer, he is only... a teacher!

I was clear and decisive at last, so much so that I imposed this choice on myself and on all those around me. If someone asked me about something... I wouldn’t shut up!

Until they said: By God, I understood!...

If the teacher felt he didn’t want to explain the lesson due to tiredness... I would stand up. Here is the substitute teacher!

The situations were numerous, and I am unable to detail them due to their abundance, but I was very firm on this decision... However, there was a truth I pretended not to see...

No... Not everything you want, you get. This college is not like other colleges. If you want to join it, you must... pray? That alone is enough...

But when the mind insists on something, pride prevents it from retreating no matter what.

So I deceive myself: Even if I am not accepted, I will apply to the Faculty of Arts to later apply to the Ministry of Education!

I hadn’t yet comprehended, after twelve years of study, that even if you can impose your inclinations on yourself, and on those around you... you cannot impose them on fate...

No... No... I ignored these poisonous thoughts! I am a productive teacher, and you will see this!

I studied this farewell year and wished it had lasted a little longer. Indeed, when I received the certificate, I looked at the school gate after bidding farewell to my friends, those who had stayed with me throughout this... ordeal?

No... No...

I guess school...
wasn't...
bad...

I wrapped the certificate and put it in the closet. Then I rested my head on the pillow... Unfortunately, I realized...

Who am I lying to?!!???
I haven’t chosen anything yet!
My future and all my hopes revolve around a possibility??
Have I gone mad!?

I couldn’t sleep. I got out of bed...

Yes, that was a lie...
A very, very big lie...
I lived it fully aware of it, but I pretended madness...

Inclinations?? Are you serious? All that happened is that I tried...
And everything I tried, I fell into the trap that it’s (my inclination)!

The kindergarten child? He was silly! He said he was an engineer not because he was creative, but because he owned the blocks that others didn’t!...

That artist? How foolish he was. He could barely hold the brush well. Just because he saw his room full of drawings, he thought himself an artist!

As for the "YouTuber," how embarrassing. Leave this stupidity and understand yourself, you idiot!...

The programmer? Don’t drive me crazy! Not everyone who programmed a game where a cube moves in space became a programmer by instinct!

.........

The teacher?......

It’s not that I lean toward education; the truth is, I just tried it... so I thought that it was my whole... and my self...

I am not a job...
I am... a purpose... an impact
Whatever it is, I will be it...
And my life will not revolve around me, but around people who found themselves... different from me... If I am not productive...
I will be present... for those who are!

───────────────────

Conclusion: The Conclusion!......... Yes..... I think?

The man got out of bed, heard the voices of his maternal aunts in the sitting room. He changed his clothes, put on perfume, and entered among them. His face was like one with no identity, no expressions... And no clear goal...

He greeted his mother and her sisters and sat there...

The first question they rushed at him: What is your university major that you "chose"...?

He was silent for a little while...

He said: Education, perhaps because I... didn’t think of anything else? A direct way to leave an impact... Perhaps that’s what suits me... (while inside he was refuting every letter of this nonsense)

His aunt said: But son, this isn’t a guaranteed field to earn a seat in, you know...
I said: Understand me, what should I do...
She said: A message? An impact? Be a nurse... and the door is open for someone like you, believe me...
I said: No..... I’m not that... maybe

But she insisted, and indeed... And one way or another, she convinced me?

Enthusiasm returned for a moment. I went and registered, until I discovered that it... is also not easy to attain. The seats are limited. I registered just on hope...

And to fill the potential void, I also registered for what is definitely available... even if I didn’t want it completely...

Now... the matter is clear... that nothing is clear...

I will be accepted among three, with a difference like heaven and earth between them...

I don’t know. I prepare myself for what? And behold, that happy child who used to play with blocks, full of ambition, is now a "lost" young man resorting to writing from the pain of thinking...

What am I?
...until now
.....God knows best
.....With God is the choice, and in Him I put my trust
.....I am
(I don’t know)

I was sitting with my older brother, trying to convince him to take me to the mall so I could get some candy for my friends’ gathering.

He was so stubborn, playing Fortnite and just kept promising he would do it later…

Until he said, “Sally, you know what? If I finish this game, we’re going together.”

I jumped up. “Really!?”

Phone rings. Clay answers.

I huffed. “Clay, the mall! You promised!” He waved me off and put the call on speaker.

Clay: Hello?

Caller: Hey! Is that Mr,,?

Clay: Clay.

Caller: Yeah! Clay.

Clay: Yeah?

Caller: Congrats congrats congrats! You’re our winner today!

[Clay says nothing, resumes playing his game on the iPad.]

I whispered, “Who is that?” He just shrugged, eyes glued to the screen.

Caller: YOU WON MILLION DOLLARS! Congraaats!

I snorted. A million dollars. Sure.

Clay: (still playing) Oh lord, a million?

Caller: YES, and I say it, you deserve it, you worked hard to get that!

I tugged his sleeve. “Clay, it’s a scam. Hang up.” He ignored me, mouth twitching.

Clay: Yeah, I guess.

Caller: You don’t know how I’m happy for you, do you want to say something to the show’s audience?

Clay: (focused on the game) Yeah like, you guys, changed my life, I’m so happy, to people from all the world, I wish you, to be fine and stuff.

I buried my face in a pillow to muffle my laugh.

Caller: Yeah! Now Clay, you know, in order to send you that big amount of money, we need get your civilian card info, unless you’re American.

Clay: Oh, I’m American, that’s bad?

Caller: No! Not at all, I mean—

[Clay shouts, reacting to his game.]

Clay: FUCK! He’s building so fast!

Caller: Are you okay Mr Clay?

I leaned in close to the phone. “He’s very not okay”, Clay swatted me away, grinning.

Clay: No, I’m, frustrated you know, I can’t give you my ID info to get like, the money.

Caller(Weird, and awkward English): No don’t worry, you’re still safe! All the money is yours, no taxes! I promise, but to reach your location to offer the check, we need to have another way to you to find your residence, like, oh! Your bank card, it has a lot of valuable information that leads us to your doorstep!

[Clay is eating chips.]

Clay: That makes sense.

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Oh yeah, totally.”

Caller: Yeah! Now, can you get your card now?

Clay: Wait! I need to get it now!

[Clay keeps chatting with a girl on Discord. A minute passes. The girl sends him a kissing emoji. He smiles.]

I whispered, “You’re not even looking for a card. You’re flirting.” He showed me the emoji and winked.

Caller: Mr Clay?

Clay: Yeah?

Caller: You got the card?

Clay: I’m still looking for it, I’m sure it’s here.

I stage-whispered, “The million depends on it!” He shushed me, fighting a laugh.

Caller: You found the card?

Clay: Yeah, I fucking did.

---

Caller: GREAT! Now, the card you’re holding is the key to get your million, there are a lot of numbers in that card, you see them?

[Clay sends a photo of himself to the girl, sitting on the bed.]

I pointed at the screen. “Really? Now?”

Caller: Hey?

Clay: Oh yeah, so, what number you exactly want?

Caller: Do you see the long number in the card? It’s tall! That’s what I need first…

Clay: Oh, I see it.

Caller: Sure you do! Now, what’s the number?

Clay: One, Zero…

I clapped a hand over my mouth. Here we go.

Caller: Okay, one, zero…

Clay: Yeah, one zero…

Caller: Then?

Clay: Did you write it?

Caller: I typed one zero…

Clay: Wrong, I said “One zero, one zero” two times…

Caller: Oh, okay…

Clay: Repeat what I said, just to make sure, like, to get my money…

Caller: One zero, one zero…

I mimed wiping a tear. “So professional.”

Clay: You’re doing great! Oh!

[Clay reacts: the girl has sent him a photo of herself, also sitting on a bed.]

Caller: Okay, then?

Clay: So, one zero, one zero, four fives…

Caller: Four five…

Clay: You fucking stupid! I said “four fives”, not “four five” you want me to loose my money!?

I slapped the bed, wheezing silently.

Caller: Oh, I’m sorry, I get it now…

Clay: Now tell me the exact number, slowly..

Caller: One zero, one zero, four fives…

Clay: NO, you won’t type “Four fives” in the document ain’t you? You know how hard I worked for the money right? You tell me the numbers, one by one, slowly…

Caller: Okay, one zero, one zero, five, five, five, five…

Clay: Yeah, good job…

Caller: Then?

[Clay is replying to the girl. She has sent what looks like a dating location.]

Clay: Now type, eighteen million, and 369 thousand, and 856…

Caller: What?

I whispered, “Eighteen million… that’s a card number, right?” He nodded gravely.

Clay: Those are the rest eight digits…

Caller: Sir it’s not clear to me what you said…

Clay: I was very precise, I did a great work reading the number for you, now you do the typing…

[A bit of silence from the caller.]

Caller: Eighteen? Like, one, eight?

Clay: What do you think? What grade are you?

Caller: What, grade are you?

Clay: I’m grade 12, that’s some important info, to get my money, right?

I hissed, “Tell them you’re high, it’ll help.”

Caller: Sure yeah! So, one eight…

Clay: The number doesn’t start with one eight, at all, you idiot…

Caller: So, one zero, one zero, five five five five, one eight…

Clay: Three six nine…

Caller: Three six nine…

Clay: Eight five six…

Caller: Eight five six, okay.

[Caller takes a breath.]

Caller: What is your CVV?

Clay: It’s, zeroes…

Caller: What?

Clay: I paid for a unique CVV, it’s all zeroes…

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. “A premium card” I mouthed.

Caller: But the program already suggests zeroes before, typing the digits…

Clay: Leave it then, they did the work for you…

Caller: Alright, what is the, date written in your card?

Clay: Oh, 26, 6…

Caller: It’s expired?

Clay: Don’t worry it’s the creation date…

Caller: Ah okay…

[Caller clicks, likely trying to validate the card.]

Caller: Sir, it doesn’t work…

Clay: Unfortunately…

Caller: Did you say it right?

I grabbed a pillow, ready to scream-laugh into it.

Clay: Likely not…

Caller: Oh, why?…

Clay: I’m blind…

Caller: What?

[Clay hangs up and continues chatting with the girl.]

I exploded. Tears streamed down my face as I finally let the laughter out. “You— you’re blind! The creation date!”

He just smirked. “Get your shoes.”

I was still laughing when we walked out the door.

I was sitting with my older brother, trying to convince him to take me to the mall so I could get some candy for my friends’ gathering.

He was so stubborn, playing Fortnite and just kept promising he would do it later…

Until he said, “Sally, you know what? If I finish this game, we’re going together.”

I jumped up. “Really!?”

Phone rings. Clay answers.

I huffed. “Clay, the mall! You promised!” He waved me off and put the call on speaker.

Clay: Hello?

Caller: Hey! Is that Mr,,?

Clay: Clay.

Caller: Yeah! Clay.

Clay: Yeah?

Caller: Congrats congrats congrats! You’re our winner today!

[Clay says nothing, resumes playing his game on the iPad.]

I whispered, “Who is that?” He just shrugged, eyes glued to the screen.

Caller: YOU WON MILLION DOLLARS! Congraaats!

I snorted. A million dollars. Sure.

Clay: (still playing) Oh lord, a million?

Caller: YES, and I say it, you deserve it, you worked hard to get that!

I tugged his sleeve. “Clay, it’s a scam. Hang up.” He ignored me, mouth twitching.

Clay: Yeah, I guess.

Caller: You don’t know how I’m happy for you, do you want to say something to the show’s audience?

Clay: (focused on the game) Yeah like, you guys, changed my life, I’m so happy, to people from all the world, I wish you, to be fine and stuff.

I buried my face in a pillow to muffle my laugh.

Caller: Yeah! Now Clay, you know, in order to send you that big amount of money, we need get your civilian card info, unless you’re American.

Clay: Oh, I’m American, that’s bad?

Caller: No! Not at all, I mean—

[Clay shouts, reacting to his game.]

Clay: FUCK! He’s building so fast!

Caller: Are you okay Mr Clay?

I leaned in close to the phone. “He’s very not okay”, Clay swatted me away, grinning.

Clay: No, I’m, frustrated you know, I can’t give you my ID info to get like, the money.

Caller(Weird, and awkward English): No don’t worry, you’re still safe! All the money is yours, no taxes! I promise, but to reach your location to offer the check, we need to have another way to you to find your residence, like, oh! Your bank card, it has a lot of valuable information that leads us to your doorstep!

[Clay is eating chips.]

Clay: That makes sense.

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Oh yeah, totally.”

Caller: Yeah! Now, can you get your card now?

Clay: Wait! I need to get it now!

[Clay keeps chatting with a girl on Discord. A minute passes. The girl sends him a kissing emoji. He smiles.]

I whispered, “You’re not even looking for a card. You’re flirting.” He showed me the emoji and winked.

Caller: Mr Clay?

Clay: Yeah?

Caller: You got the card?

Clay: I’m still looking for it, I’m sure it’s here.

I stage-whispered, “The million depends on it!” He shushed me, fighting a laugh.

Caller: You found the card?

Clay: Yeah, I fucking did.

---

Caller: GREAT! Now, the card you’re holding is the key to get your million, there are a lot of numbers in that card, you see them?

[Clay sends a photo of himself to the girl, sitting on the bed.]

I pointed at the screen. “Really? Now?”

Caller: Hey?

Clay: Oh yeah, so, what number you exactly want?

Caller: Do you see the long number in the card? It’s tall! That’s what I need first…

Clay: Oh, I see it.

Caller: Sure you do! Now, what’s the number?

Clay: One, Zero…

I clapped a hand over my mouth. Here we go.

Caller: Okay, one, zero…

Clay: Yeah, one zero…

Caller: Then?

Clay: Did you write it?

Caller: I typed one zero…

Clay: Wrong, I said “One zero, one zero” two times…

Caller: Oh, okay…

Clay: Repeat what I said, just to make sure, like, to get my money…

Caller: One zero, one zero…

I mimed wiping a tear. “So professional.”

Clay: You’re doing great! Oh!

[Clay reacts: the girl has sent him a photo of herself, also sitting on a bed.]

Caller: Okay, then?

Clay: So, one zero, one zero, four fives…

Caller: Four five…

Clay: You fucking stupid! I said “four fives”, not “four five” you want me to loose my money!?

I slapped the bed, wheezing silently.

Caller: Oh, I’m sorry, I get it now…

Clay: Now tell me the exact number, slowly..

Caller: One zero, one zero, four fives…

Clay: NO, you won’t type “Four fives” in the document ain’t you? You know how hard I worked for the money right? You tell me the numbers, one by one, slowly…

Caller: Okay, one zero, one zero, five, five, five, five…

Clay: Yeah, good job…

Caller: Then?

[Clay is replying to the girl. She has sent what looks like a dating location.]

Clay: Now type, eighteen million, and 369 thousand, and 856…

Caller: What?

I whispered, “Eighteen million… that’s a card number, right?” He nodded gravely.

Clay: Those are the rest eight digits…

Caller: Sir it’s not clear to me what you said…

Clay: I was very precise, I did a great work reading the number for you, now you do the typing…

[A bit of silence from the caller.]

Caller: Eighteen? Like, one, eight?

Clay: What do you think? What grade are you?

Caller: What, grade are you?

Clay: I’m grade 12, that’s some important info, to get my money, right?

I hissed, “Tell them you’re high, it’ll help.”

Caller: Sure yeah! So, one eight…

Clay: The number doesn’t start with one eight, at all, you idiot…

Caller: So, one zero, one zero, five five five five, one eight…

Clay: Three six nine…

Caller: Three six nine…

Clay: Eight five six…

Caller: Eight five six, okay.

[Caller takes a breath.]

Caller: What is your CVV?

Clay: It’s, zeroes…

Caller: What?

Clay: I paid for a unique CVV, it’s all zeroes…

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. “A premium card” I mouthed.

Caller: But the program already suggests zeroes before, typing the digits…

Clay: Leave it then, they did the work for you…

Caller: Alright, what is the, date written in your card?

Clay: Oh, 26, 6…

Caller: It’s expired?

Clay: Don’t worry it’s the creation date…

Caller: Ah okay…

[Caller clicks, likely trying to validate the card.]

Caller: Sir, it doesn’t work…

Clay: Unfortunately…

Caller: Did you say it right?

I grabbed a pillow, ready to scream-laugh into it.

Clay: Likely not…

Caller: Oh, why?…

Clay: I’m blind…

Caller: What?

[Clay hangs up and continues chatting with the girl.]

I exploded. Tears streamed down my face as I finally let the laughter out. “You— you’re blind! The creation date!”

He just smirked. “Get your shoes.”

I was still laughing when we walked out the door.

I was already drowning before the banging started.

Health Assessment. The one subject I’d coasted through, telling myself I’d catch up later. Now “later” was a final exam in fourteen hours, and every time I tried to focus, the words blurred. I’d done fine in everything else — med-surg, pharm, patho — but this one felt like a foreign language I’d pretended to learn all semester.

I closed the textbook at midnight and told myself a bath would reset my brain. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet, the kind that makes your own thoughts echo. I’d left my phone charging on the nightstand. I didn’t think I’d need it for a ten-minute soak.

The first bang was so loud I flinched and sloshed water onto the floor. I froze. “POLICE! We have a warrant, open the door now!”, It’s been a minute, I didn’t process what to do next. Then another. Then a splintering crack, and the unmistakable thunder of boots on hardwood.

I heard chaos — furniture scraping, cupboard doors slamming, voices overlapping. My brain, already marinated in anxiety and sleep deprivation, didn’t land on “law enforcement.” It landed on “break-in.” I live alone. I had no phone. The bathroom door locked, so I locked it.

Then the shouting became words: “Police! Search warrant! Show us your hands!”

Some rational corner of my mind tried to surface, but fear had already flooded the engine. What if they’re lying? What if they’re not police? I’d read stories — people impersonating cops to rob places. I pressed my back against the cold tile and didn’t answer.

The footsteps stopped outside the bathroom. A heavy fist pounded the door.

“Occupied! Anyone in there? Come out with your hands up!”

I couldn’t move. My legs were shaking so badly I thought I’d collapse. The doorknob rattled. Then a different voice, calmer: “We’re breaching it.”

The door splintered open like it was made of cardboard. An officer in full tactical gear filled the doorway, weapon low but ready. Behind him, another swept a flashlight beam across the tiny room.

“Hands! Let me see your hands!”

I raised them, palms out, still dripping bathwater. But I didn’t step forward. I was cornered, and my body chose the only exit it could see — the window above the toilet. Small, frosted glass, maybe two feet square. I’d opened it before in the summer to let out steam. And sure, that was stupid, I got tased within a second as I fell from the toilet, my ankle buckled, and I sank to my knees. And even while incapacitated, an officer roughly grabbed me slamming me prone facing the floor.
“Don’t move!” Officer said, another officer came from behind, forced my arms down one at a time, and cuffed me. I didn’t resist. I couldn’t have if I’d tried

“Why’d you run, man?” one of them muttered as they hauled me upright. I couldn’t form words. My brain was static.

They walked me out of my apartment, my ankle screaming every step. A paramedic materialized and wrapped a bandage around my foot while I sat on the bumper of a cruiser. Someone draped a blanket over my shoulders. I was told I was under arrest for obstructing a law enforcement officer and resisting detention. When they Mirandized me, I just nodded.

I spent the rest of the night in a holding cell at the county jail. Not a cell with a bunk — a large intake pen with three concrete walls, a bench, and a dozen other men in various states of misery. I found a sliver of bench and curled on my side, no blanket, and stared at the floor. My ankle throbbed. My shoulders stung. The fluorescent lights never went off.

Sometime around 3 a.m., a guy with a shaved head and meth-scarred arms stood over me. “That’s my spot.”

I didn’t argue. I slid to the floor and propped myself against the wall. He grunted and took the bench.

Morning came in a gray smear of processed air and distant door clangs. I didn’t eat the bologna sandwich they offered.

And yeah, you can’t afford an attorney? Then you can’t afford your wasted life, hours, days, I think literally 3-4 days in that hell just waiting for that “Lawyer”, it’s actually a public defender, that’s what the judge told me in the appearance.

And finally…
A guard called my name around 9 a.m. “White. Your attorney’s here.”

Sally Cutter was in her fifties, with tired eyes and a voice that had talked dozens of scared kids off similar ledges. She sat me down in a private interview room and didn’t waste time on pity.

“I’m your public defender. I’ve seen the warrant affidavit and the initial report. Here’s where we are.”

She explained it in plain terms. Someone had called the police tip line the night before, claiming they’d seen a large quantity of drugs in my apartment and that I was planning to sell them that night. The caller gave enough detail — my name, my address, a description of the layout — that a judge signed a search warrant. The raid was the execution of that warrant.

“They didn’t find a large quantity,” Sally said, tapping her pen. “They found a single baggie with maybe two grams of crystal meth taped to the underside of your bathroom sink. No distribution weight. But enough for possession. And the fact that it was hidden like that doesn’t look good.”

I stared at her. “I’ve never seen that in my life. I don’t do drugs. I’m a nursing student.”

“If so, the question is who put it there.” She leaned back. “Any ideas who might want to set you up?”

I shook my head, then stopped. “My girlfriend. Sarah. We haven’t talked in a week. She’s been… I don’t know, distant. She’s got a key to my place. She was the last person in there besides me.”

Sally’s pen scratched notes. “Tell me about Sarah.”

I told her everything — the four-month relationship, the sudden silence, Sarah’s constant fear that I’d leave her for someone else. How she’d check my phone when she thought I wasn’t looking, how she’d get upset if I studied with female classmates. How I’d thought it was just insecurity, something we could work through.

“She ever been in your bathroom cabinet?” Sally asked.

“Yeah. She used my bathroom all the time. She kept tampons under the sink.”

Sally nodded slowly. “The baggie had no prints lifted yet. That takes time. But the hiding spot is something a guest could access without you noticing. We’ll need to point the investigation in her direction. But don’t be so optimistic, prints won’t likely do much.” She paused. “This is speculation, not evidence. But it’s the best defense we’ve got right now — that the same person who made the call planted the evidence, but ultimately we don’t know who made the call, and I don’t think we will. I’m going to push the detective to look at her.”

She left me with a piece of paper and a pen. “Write down everyone who’s been in your apartment in the last two months. Names, contact info if you have it. I’ll get this to the investigator.”

I wrote slowly, my handwriting shaky. Sarah’s name at the top. Then a couple classmates who’d visited once. The maintenance guy who’d fixed the leaky faucet. I gave it to Sally, and she stood to leave.

“What about my exam?” I asked, my voice cracking. “I was supposed to take my health assessment final that morning.”

Sally’s face softened for the first time. “Ahh, honey leave that for now. Schools usually have legal considerations, if you’re exonerated, then you deal with it”

After she left, I was escorted back to the cell. The bench guy was gone — transferred or released. I climbed onto the bench this time, pulled the scratchy blanket up to my chin, before I even sleep in peace, someone took the blanket already saying “Get fucking yours”, which obviously doesn’t exist.

I thought about Sarah’s nervous laugh, the way she’d squeeze my hand too tight when she was anxious. The way she’d asked me, a week ago, if I still loved her, her eyes searching my face for a lie I wasn’t telling. I’d said yes. She hadn’t believed me.

Now I was in jail, a small bag of meth taped under my sink, and the only person with both access and motive had gone silent right before the storm. Maybe she’d done it herself. Maybe someone had played her like a piano. Either way, I was no longer just a nursing student terrified of a final. I was a man waiting to find out if the person he’d trusted had just tried to bury him.

And the worst part? I still had no idea why.

Bail hearing? Sorry, I can’t pay that much, I had to stay anyways, didn’t even think about it.

It’s been a week, two, Sally visited twice. The first time, she told me the forensics lab had finally processed the baggie. Yeah, nothing reliable, likely prints

The second visit, Sally looked tired but satisfied. “Detective finally interviewed Sarah. She lawyered up immediately, didn’t confess to anything. But her story fell apart in small ways. She claimed she hadn’t been in your apartment for two weeks, but a neighbor’s doorbell camera caught her entering the building four days before the raid. She said she still had her key, then said she’d returned it, then said she wasn’t sure.”

“Why?” I asked, and my voice cracked in a way I hated. “Why would she do this to me?”

Sally didn’t sugarcoat it. “I don’t really know, but I know how frustrating it is, sorry.”

Three weeks, four, five.
Detention continues, prosecutors cling to the sole objective evidence, the drugs were at YOUR apartment, period; they always have an excuse to keep me there.
Sally exists, but she’s not only mine, I felt lonely, and my heart jumps every time I see the officer comes looking at me, “Your lawyer”, a reason good enough to leave that hell, and yet she barely tells anything.

Six weeks, seven, eight, TWO FUCKING MONTHS, and three days to be precise….
I hated my life, I didn’t know what the hell was happening, why the fuck I’m here, I have a life, sorry, I HAD a life, I know nothing about it now, I just want to fucking go out. I’m 19 now, I was supposed to have my birthday in a loud, youth party, not while sleeping in front of a 50 year-old cellmate, likely masturbating under that blanket, while looking at, my, face. And no one would care.

Finally. And just somehow, in the “Interest of justice”. That CCTV likely saved my life, and the case got dismissed.

The case ended not with a bang but with a paper shuffle. The obstruction charge was reduced to a misdemeanor and then dismissed after I completed a short anger management course—not because I needed it, but because it was the fastest way to make the whole thing disappear. I sat in a circle with men who’d actually hurt people, and I kept my mouth shut and my head down, just like Sally taught me.

I moved out of that apartment. My cousin drove up from New York to help me pack. I didn’t tell fucking Sarah I was leaving. I didn’t call her, didn’t text, didn’t ask for an explanation. I changed my passwords on everything—email, Netflix, my student portal, my bank account. I got a new phone number.

Sarah was never charged. The prosecutor decided the evidence of her planting the drugs was suggestive but not airtight—she could’ve argued she’d touched the bag somewhere else, that someone else had placed it, that the tip call came from another person entirely. There wasn’t enough to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that she’d orchestrated the whole thing. She walked free, legally innocent, and I had to learn to live with that.

I saw her once, months later, across the campus quad, I had to visit. She looked at me, and I looked at her, and neither of us waved. She turned first. I let her go.

I don’t really know about nursing school, can I even go back? The scholarship is already over, I contacted them, the thing may take the whole semester until I can get back into campus.
I have no cent left, debt about $1745. I don’t fucking know what those money presents but I have to pay that, but what I know is that currently, I have nothing left.

Yeah, hi!