I still see the faint imprint of the syllabus on my desk, a ghost of what could have been. That final exam, the one that determined everything, felt like a ship I missed by a hair’s breadth. Instead of sitting in that sterile lecture hall, surrounded by the anxious scratch of pens, I was in a different kind of sterile room, the fluorescent hum of urgent care buzzing in my ears. All because I was utterly, irrationally convinced that the dull throb behind my eyes, the one that had been a faithful companion since deadline season started, was actually a tumor. A BRAIN TUMOR. Is that crazy? Does everyone feel this bone-deep certainty that their body is betraying them? I mean, I can’t afford to be sick. Not really. Every dollar is already earmarked, spoken for before it even hits my account. Skipping that exam, the one I’d already paid for, felt like watching my own hands set fire to the little bit of rope I had left. The doctor, bless her patient soul, looked at me like I was a particularly dramatic houseplant. A tension headache, she said. Not a tumor. Just... stress. Like I needed a medical degree to tell me that. But there was something about hearing it, about being physically in that room, that made it feel real. The anger that boiled up then wasn’t at her, or at the headache, but at myself. For being so stupid, so wasteful, so utterly terrified of something that was, in the end, just a headache. Just a headache, that still felt like a brick lodged behind my eye. And now I have to explain to my boss why I blew off a chance to move forward, why I’m still stuck here, scraping by, while everyone else seems to be... ascending. I watch my friends talk about their promotions, their new apartments, their weekend trips, and I just… I grit my teeth. Because how do you tell someone you almost convinced yourself you had a brain tumor because you were so scared of not being able to pay next month’s rent? How do you explain that every tiny ache, every unexpected cough, feels like the first tremor before the whole damn house comes down? The shame of it is a sour taste in my mouth, every single day, every day. I see the phone number for the registrar blinking on my screen, and I just can’t bring myself to call. What’s the point? The ship already sailed, and I was too busy staring at the clouds, convinced they were falling.