I stood there for forty minutes. Forty minutes of pure, unadulterated scrutiny. They sat behind the long table—the mahogany one that smells like lemon polish and old tenure—and they just stared. I knew the answers. I’ve lived the data for years. But the weirdest thing happened while they were digging into the methodology section. My hands just started... failing. Just a violent, rhythmic tremor that felt like a localized earthquake in my phalanges. I didn't want them to see. I didn't want those three people to know that I’ve spent the last four years oscillating between sheer terror and a complete lack of sleep. So I put them behind my back. Clenched them together until my knuckles turned that weird, bloodless white color. reasons I kept my hands hidden: 1. if they see you shake, they smell blood in the water 2. the PI thinks I'm "stoic" and I need to keep that up for the recommendation 3. I didn't want them to realize I haven't had a real meal in forty-eight hours 4. it felt like if I let go, the whole room would just dissolve into some entropic mess The one guy, Dr. H—, he asked me about the lacunae in my third chapter. He used that word like he was savoring a fine wine. Lacunae. Gaps. I looked him dead in the eye and gave him some bullshit about the inherent limitations of the sample size, keeping my voice steady while my fingers were literally vibrating against my lower back. I felt like a machine. A broke-ass machine that’s been running on red-line for too long. I’m thirty-eight. I shouldn't be here. I should be somewhere with a 401k and a dentist I see more than once every five years. Instead, I’m doing freelance copy editing for tech bros at 3 AM just to pay for the gas to get to this defense. The situation with my landlord is getting weird again. He called three times while I was in the room. I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket—a different kind of shaking. It felt like a little heart attack every time it went off. Between the questions about my dissertation and the mental math of how many delivery shifts I need to pick up this weekend to cover the "convenience fee" on the rent portal... I just felt flat. Not scared. Just... empty. Like a discarded candy wrapper. things I will do now that it’s over: - go to the gas station and buy those shitty rollers - check the app to see if there are any high-pay gigs in the suburbs - avoid looking at the "congratulations" email from the department - stare at the wall until the sun comes up After they told me I passed, they all stood up to shake my hand. That was the hard part. I had to unlock my fingers. I had to bring them around to the front and hope to god they’d stopped. I did it. I shook their hands. My palms were sweaty and I probably looked like a freak, but I smiled that fake, professional smile. "Thank you for the opportunity," I said. Total crap. I hated every second of it. I walked out to the parking lot and just sat in my car for an hour. No music. Just the sound of the engine cooling down. Tink, tink, tink. someone told me I should feel proud. That thing we talked about last week? It doesn't matter now. The degree is just a piece of paper that says I survived being treated like a disposable resource. I’ve got three tabs open on my phone right now—one for a gig writing "engaging" product descriptions for ergonomic chairs, one for a debt consolidation site, and one for the department portal. I’m thirty-eight years old and I’m wondering if the coffee shop down the street is hiring for the morning shift. They have dental. It’s 2 AM and the adrenaline is long gone. Just the tremors are left, hovering under the skin. I keep looking at my hands on the steering wheel. They’re still shaking, just a little bit. It’s like they didn't get the memo that the "performance" is over. I don't feel relieved. I don't feel like a doctor. I just feel tired. Like, the kind of tired that you can't sleep off. The kind that settles in your marrow and stays there until you're nothing but bones and bad memories. I have to go do that thing tomorrow. The one with the paperwork. If I don't, the whole situation is going to get worse. But for right now, I’m just going to sit here in the dark. Maybe I’ll check the app one more time. Someone might need a delivery at 3 AM. It’s better than thinking about what comes next. It’s always better to just keep moving, even if you’re moving toward nothing. - no money in the bank - no "real" job lined up - a fancy title nobody cares about - hands that won't stay still Whatever. I’m fine. I’ve been fine for a long time. That’s the problem.