I just… I can’t sleep. It’s 2:17 AM and my eyes are WIDE open, just staring at the glow of my phone because every time I close them, I see the stupid plaque. The stupid, shiny, HEAVY plaque sitting on my kitchen counter like some kind of cosmic joke. “National Young Designer of the Year.” Are you kidding me? Me? The girl who almost didn’t even submit anything because I was convinced my portfolio was just… fine. Like, legitimately just fine. A few good client projects, sure, but mostly just… I don’t know, happy accidents? Things that just happened to work out. I spent three hours last week trying to recreate one of the effects they praised during the judging and I literally COULDN’T DO IT. I failed. Repeatedly. At something I supposedly created. How is that even possible? And now I’m supposed to go to the industry gala next month, shake hands, give some kind of speech about my “vision” and my “process,” and I just want to vomit. Seriously, like a full-on projectile vomit all over the fancy tablecloths and everyone’s expensive suits. They’re going to figure it out. All of them. The judges, my boss, the other designers who actually deserve this, they’re going to look at me, really look, and realize I’m a fraud. That I somehow, inexplicably, fumbled my way into this thing and now I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like the whole thing is some elaborate prank that’s just about to reach its punchline. I can almost hear them laughing already, like, “Remember that one time we gave the national award to that totally average girl?” It’s humiliating, even just thinking about it. I just cleaned my entire apartment, scrubbed the bathroom tiles until my fingers ached, even organized my spice rack, anything to stop thinking about it. But it’s still there, this buzzing in my brain, this feeling of dread. I actually picked up the plaque and weighed it in my hand and it felt so much heavier than it looks, like it’s full of all the expectations I’m about to crash and burn under. I keep replaying the email, the phone call from the committee, every single word, searching for some clue, some hint of sarcasm I must have missed. There isn’t one. It’s just… congratulations. And now I’m stuck. Stuck with this thing that feels like it doesn’t belong to me, waiting for the moment everyone realizes their mistake. And I just want to disappear.