We started exams today, and God only knows what I wrote on that paper because I'm sure I messed up; I walked out of the classroom already feeling the weight of failure sitting on my shoulders, and for the first time I was honestly scared that this term might defeat me. When I fail—and I know I probably will—the only person who used to sit next to me, bump her shoulder lightly against mine, and tell me it wasn't the end of the world was Anna, and now I step into the noisy hallway alone. Maybe calling things off with her was a mistake, but I can't bring myself to admit that out loud, let alone go back and fix it; I keep telling myself she'll come around eventually, that she can't resist me, even though a small voice inside me knows I'm not as sure as I pretend to be. Math was terrible, completely terrible—I stared at the last question as if it personally hated me, and I left half of it unanswered because my mind just went blank. Everyone around me is comparing answers, laughing, exaggerating their mistakes, but I can't join them; the noise feels heavier than usual, like it's pressing against my head, and all I want is silence. Tomorrow has to be better, it just has to, because I don't know how many more days like this I can survive without breaking, so now I just need to find somewhere quiet, somewhere away from the voices and expectations, somewhere I can sit, breathe, and try to gather the pieces of myself before the next paper destroys whatever confidence I have left.
We're about to finish these hard exams because after next Wednesday all the science papers will be done, so this weekend I won't push too hard with studying since only physics will be left. "What's up, man?" Eddy says, swinging his headphones around his neck like he's already at a party instead of school. "They said this weekend we're watching that Barça match, so I hope you're in." Normally I'd match his hype, argue about the score before the match even starts, but today I'm not in the mood for his noise. "Yeah, we shall," I say flatly. He narrows his eyes at me. "You're not in the mood. Is it the exams? We all failed, bro. No need to be mad about it. Or is it Anna? I heard you two don't talk anymore. Why?" His tone drops slightly, less DJ, more friend. I shrug. "I don't know, man. I've got a lot on my mind, like finding an extra plate at lunch because I'm starving for real," I reply, trying to dodge the real subject. I'm tired of people telling me I have to talk to her, like it's that simple, like nothing stands between us every time her name comes up.
Well, it's been a while since I last went to play; after that incident with the coach, I didn't want things to get worse. Volleyball was starting to feel like another place where I could fail, and I wasn't ready for that. But maybe it's the last thing I need right now to feel whole again. As Eddy said, we all probably failed anyway, so I'd rather play than sit for a dozen hours pretending to study when I already feel defeated. Now that I've managed to find extra plates for the remaining days until the weekend, I'll have enough energy to play without worrying about collapsing on the court. I just hope that girl leaves my mind for once; I don't want to lose another ball, because I know the coach won't tolerate it. One small mistake and he'll make me sit in the mud again, or worse, suspend me for good. And no matter how much I love the game, I can't keep humiliating myself over things I should be able to control.
"See who decided to show up today?" the coach calls out the moment I step onto the court. "Is your mind finally clear of that girl, or should I bring her here to watch you sit in the mud again when you start playing soft?" The guys laugh under their breath, pretending not to. I force a laugh and catch the ball he throws at me, gripping it tighter than necessary. "Hope you've got energy today, bro," he adds, eyes sharp, daring me to slip. I curse under my breath and jog toward the others, stretching my shoulders, rolling my neck, trying to shake off the embarrassment. The ground is still slightly damp from yesterday's rain, and I remember exactly how it felt last time—mud on my knees, everyone watching, his whistle cutting through the air like a warning. I won't let that happen again. Warm-ups, quick passes, short sprints, controlled sets—I focus on the rhythm of the game, the sound of the ball hitting palms, the scrape of shoes against the rough surface. Every jump feels heavier than it should, like I'm carrying something invisible on my back. "Higher!" the coach shouts. "You're not here to think, you're here to play." Not here to think… if only it were that simple. After practice, I drag my tired legs toward the showers, letting the warm water hit my shoulders and back, washing away sweat, mud, and some of the tension I've been carrying. The steam fogs the mirrors, and for a moment I just breathe, letting my mind go quiet. Elliot comes in, still wet from his shower. I'm not surprised—he's always late, and the fact that he's in charge of the dorms gives him a little power he likes to flaunt. "Yo, man, I heard coach gave you hell on the court. You gonna talk to him, or will the team?" he asks, drying his hair with a towel, smirking like he knows the answer before I even speak. "Well, I don't. I'll just… let him know what silence means. If he's really a man, he'll understand, or next time he'll be sitting in the mud again," I say, shrugging. He just laughs, shaking his head, and continues toward our chamber, leaving me to go. Even as I walk, my thoughts keep drifting, and I know she's still there somewhere in my mind, stubborn as ever, making it impossible to forget her or the weight of everything I've been avoiding.
Evening prep is quieter than the court, but somehow louder in my head. Chairs scrape against the tiled floor, pages flip, pens tap in nervous rhythms. I sit at my usual desk near the window, where the light from the corridor slips in through the half-closed blinds. My books are open. My pen is in my hand. None of it enters my mind. I've been reading the same line three times. Nothing. Across the room, someone coughs. Another whispers and gets shushed immediately. The supervisor walks between rows like a silent guard. I lower my eyes to the page again, trying to force the words inside my skull. Instead, I see her—the way she looked at me that day. The way I looked away first. I grip my pen tighter. What if the coach is right? What if I really did lose focus? What if everyone saw it before I did? I exhale slowly and lean back in my chair. Studying like this feels useless. Playing at least makes me feel something. Even when he humiliates me, even when I hit the ground, at least I'm alive there. Here, I'm just… stuck. I close the book gently this time, not frustrated—just certain. I can't keep letting this sit inside me. I either talk to her… or I let it rot and keep missing serves because my head is somewhere else. The supervisor clears his throat from the front. I open the book again.
Days pass faster than we expect, someone says at the dining table, but I'm absent-minded. Since exams started, there's only one playlist they play here. I don't even remember the other songs, but Let Her Go by Passenger hits harder than anything else right now. I have to talk to her… but I don't know how. Tomorrow is Friday. Maybe I'll try during movie time tomorrow… or Saturday.
"Hey," Mary says, sliding her arm under mine as she takes the seat beside me. I'm actually distracted at this moment. Anna and her clique are sitting before us, our bench is right behind theirs as usual, but she looks happy, laughing softly at the movie. And you know what? Lewis is sitting next to her again, his arm around her shoulders and neck. They're whispering and laughing. Is she trying to show something… or what? "HEY, how are you, Spaghetti?" I say, trying to smile and look happy to see her. "I'm good," she replies. "I heard your exams weren't as hard as ours!" I say. "They say what they want. God only knows," she answers, then there's a brief silence. I glance at the screen. Sinners is playing. The scene is tense—a character caught between choices, trembling with fear and guilt. "Did you see that part?" I ask, nodding at the screen. "I mean… when he—what do you even call it?—confesses?" Mary laughs softly. "Yeah… I didn't expect that twist at all. I thought he'd run away like always." "Exactly," I say, leaning back. "You never know what's coming next. Makes you rethink… everything. Kind of like real life, huh?" "Maybe," she says, a little smile tugging at her lips. "Life and movies… sometimes not so different." The credits start to roll. I shift a little, "Let's go out. Movie time's about to end anyway." We stand, and as we step outside, I slip my hand into hers, rubbing my thumb softly against hers. When we reach the dorm gate, I hug her tight and kiss her lightly on the forehead. "Good night, Spaghetti. Love you," I whisper. "Good night, you too," she replies and goes into her dorm. And yet… it's Saturday night. Which means I still couldn't talk to Anna. I'll find another day, perhaps.