I’m looking at this blank screen like it’s a deep well, and I’m at the edge, trying to see the bottom. Three weeks. That’s all I have left. Three weeks until this thing is due, this big old book I’m supposed to have written, the one that’s supposed to be my legacy. My whole damn life, really. And it’s not just blank, it’s mocking me. It’s got that glow, that cold blue light that just says “HA! Nothing.” I didn’t do it. I mean, I *did* things. I spent the last month in other worlds, in places with dragons and magic and puzzles to solve. Places where the stakes felt real, where I could actually *win* something. Hours bled into days, then into nights. The sun would come up, hit the blinds just so, and I’d be thinking, “Just one more level. Just one more quest.” My fingers would be stiff, my eyes gritty, and that little voice, the one that sounds an awful lot like my mother, would whisper, “What are you doing? This isn’t you.” But it was me. Or it felt like me, for a while. It felt like I was escaping. Every time I thought about the dissertation, about the mountain of research and the arguments I needed to build, a knot would tighten in my stomach. A cold, heavy stone. And then I’d pick up the controller, and the stone would loosen, just a bit. It’s a stupid, simple pleasure, I know. A cheap trick. But it worked. For a while. It was easier than facing the page, easier than the thought of disappointing everyone who ever told me I was smart. Now the stone is back, and it’s bigger, pressing right behind my ribs. My hands, the ones that were so quick on the buttons, they’re shaking a little just holding this phone. My rent’s due in a week. My landlord, Mr. Henderson, he just looks at me different now. Like he knows I’m skating by. He always says, "Almost there, doc?" with that little smirk. This degree, it was supposed to finally get me ahead, get me out of that tight spot, paycheck to paycheck. My whole life has been like that, patching holes, just barely keeping the water out. This was supposed to be the thing that sealed them all up. I keep thinking about my father. He worked himself to the bone, never got to do anything he really wanted. Said to me once, "Don't let life just happen to you, kid. Make it happen." And here I am, letting it all just drift away. The thought of failing, of not turning anything in, it makes my throat close up. Like I’ve swallowed a mouthful of sand. It's not just the degree. It’s everything. It's the last chance, you know? And I just... I played games. What kind of person does that? I just sit here and I don't even know how to start.