A month passed in that quiet, suspended state.
Everyday I fought to shield my heart, manage my sleep, and keep the nightmares at bay. It was a small, silent effort to simply endure the void.
Then, one day a notification came in our college group. The college announced the final date for the release of our semester results.
The moment I saw the announcement, a fresh wave of tension gripped my chest. This wasn't just another semester's mark sheet; it was the final chapter of my degree, the ultimate score that would officially bring my college life to a close. As the date approached, the quiet anxiety sitting deep inside me flared up again, bringing back the vivid nightmares with a vengeance. The nights grew heavy and restless, but I forced myself to endure the anxious wait, taking deep breaths and holding steady until the day arrived.
When the results were finally published online, I logged into the official portal with trembling fingers.
My score appeared on the screen. It wasn't extraordinary, nor was it a failure. It was a solid, decent result, a noticeable improvement over my past terms. I stared at the numbers for a long time. I poured every ounce of effort into everything. My philosophy was simple: if I have given everything I have, there is no room for regret.
Given the intense physical pain, the suffocating grief, and the deep loneliness I had fought through completely alone, surviving at all was an achievement. The mark sheet in front of me was proof of my endurance. I took a slow breath, accepted the outcome with peace in my heart, and felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. I had made it through.
After that, the immediate question was, "what's the next step?"
Deep down, I possessed an insatiable hunger for learning, a constant drive to learn and absorb everything I could about the world. I wanted to pursue advanced studies and dive deeper into knowledge. Ever since I was a young girl, I had carried one radiant, unshakeable dream: I wanted to become a teacher. To me, teaching was a sacred duty, a way to share what I had learned, touch lives, and help shape a better generation.
My logic was simple: how could I teach others if I hadn't mastered things myself? I didn't care about high marks or exam scores just for the prestige; I chased them because I genuinely wanted to understand. I dreamed of standing in front of a classroom, sharing whatever wisdom I had gathered, and doing my small part to nurture a new generation and shape a better society. It might have been a naive, childish ideal, but it was the purest fire inside me.
However, life had gradually altered that simple vision. The loss of my mother, my family's financial realities, and the harsh environment of job recruitment in our country had forced a heavy dose of realism onto my childhood ideal. The teaching sector was plagued by severe administrative delays, frozen hiring drives, and widespread corruption among unethical officials. Pure merit was rarely enough, and securing a position often meant facing endless political conflicts or navigating an unfair system.
I couldn't afford let my future hang in uncertainty for years. My priority had to be self-reliance and earning my own living so I would never be a burden to anyone.
Recognizing these barriers, I made the conscious decision to pivot toward competitive civil service examinations. These exams were notoriously difficult, but they offered a standardized, merit-based route where preparation and capability determined success.
Yet, as much as I wanted to take that next step, my body was sending severe warning signs. The persistent ache in my lower back and neck was steadily growing worse. Sitting for long hours had become an ordeal, and deep down, I knew I desperately needed a break, a chance to consult a doctor, rest, and heal before taking on any new pressure. I was terrified that if I didn't address my physical health now, I wouldn't be able to handle the grueling demands of competitive exam preparation.
I hesitated, wanting to pause and take things slowly. But my father held high hopes for my future. Wanting to see me succeed and secure a stable path, he went ahead and enrolled me in a competitive exam coaching institution sooner than I felt ready for.
Seeing his expectations, I couldn't bring myself to reveal my doubts or complain about my pain. As always, I chose to endure it silently.
I threw myself into the routine, studying for up to ten hours or more than that a day. In the beginning, my body surprisingly held up. With careful stretching, taking short breaks when the ache flared, and managing my routine with extra care, the pain seemed to ease slightly over the first few months. A fragile sense of relief settled over me. I began to believe that maybe my body was finally healing, that I had overcame from the worst, and that as long as I kept giving my absolute best, everything would work out fine.
I had no idea that this temporary calm was only an illusion, masking a storm that was yet to come.