The corridor outside Shera’s dorm room was thick with silence, punctuated only by the muffled sobs escaping from behind the door. Inside, Shera sat curled up on her bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The dim light from the bedside lamp barely illuminated the room, casting shadows that seemed to grow and shrink with her every breath. She stared at the worn-out photograph in her hands—her grandfather’s kind, weathered face smiling up at her.
Shera closed her eyes, letting herself be pulled back to a time when life felt simple, even if only briefly. Her grandfather’s cottage, tucked away in the countryside, had always been a sanctuary for her. Every summer, when her parents left her there, she found comfort in the steady rhythm of his life—his quiet wisdom, the way he nurtured his garden, and the gentle stories he’d tell her at night.
Young Shera (voice trembling): “Grandpa, why don’t they want to take me with them?”
Grandfather (softly, comforting her): “They’re busy people, my dear. But you and I, we have all the time in the world. And that’s enough, isn’t it?”
He would say those words with such conviction, and in his arms, she always believed it. The world outside his cottage didn’t matter. But when her parents returned from Canada, things changed. They swept her away without a moment’s hesitation, their voices clipped and cold as they talked about her future.
Shera’s Mother (distantly, almost mechanically): “It’s time to focus on your studies, Shera. You have to excel. You must be the best.”
The car ride away from her grandfather’s cottage was filled with the silence of severed ties. Her grandfather’s figure grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until it was just a speck, then nothing at all. That was the last time she felt truly loved, truly seen.
Back in her dorm room, Shera’s tears fell harder as she clutched the photograph tighter. The separation from her grandfather had torn something deep within her—a wound that never fully healed. Her parents had pushed her into a world of relentless academic pressure, where her worth was measured only in grades and achievements. They never asked how she felt, never noticed how the expectations weighed down on her, crushing the lightness of her spirit.
Shera (whispering to herself, almost as if to the photo): “I miss you, Grandpa. I wish you were here. They don’t understand… they never have.”
The expectations piled on her by her parents were suffocating. She was expected to be perfect, to excel in every subject, to outshine everyone around her. It was a prison made of high grades and accolades, but inside, she was breaking.
Shera (desperately, voice cracking): “I’m trying, Grandpa. I really am. But it’s so hard… It’s so lonely.”
In the corridor, Lizzie paused by Shera’s door, hearing the faint sounds of her crying. Lizzie’s own thoughts were clouded with the teachings her mother had drilled into her since childhood—status, appearances, and superiority. She knew Shera was suffering, but the lessons ingrained in her held her back from knocking on the door, from offering comfort.
Lizzie (thinking to herself, conflicted): “We all have our struggles… but we can’t show them. Showing weakness is a luxury I can’t afford.”
Lizzie walked on, her footsteps fading into the distance, leaving Shera alone with her pain.
Shera’s muffled sobs echoed through the corridor as Charlotte sat alone in her room, her heart still racing from the confrontation with Lizzie . The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of her desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The fear from the encounter still clung to her like a cold sweat, making her feel trapped and vulnerable.
Charlotte took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, but the terror gnawed at her mind, refusing to let go. Her hands trembled as she reached for her notebook, flipping it open to the math problems she had been working on earlier. The pages were covered in neat equations, each line a desperate attempt to distract herself from the chaos brewing around her.
Charlotte (whispering to herself, forcing herself to focus): “Just focus, Charlotte. You need to get this right. It’s just math… you can do this.”
The room around her was a mess of sticky notes and crumpled papers, each one filled with formulas and calculations. They covered the walls, the desk, and even spilled onto the floor—a testament to her relentless pursuit of perfection, a desperate attempt to maintain control over at least one part of her life.
Charlotte’s eyes scanned the equations, but the numbers seemed to blur together. Her mind was racing, unable to settle, haunted by the fear of being exposed, of losing everything she had worked so hard to achieve. The pressure was suffocating, and she could feel it building up inside her, like a balloon ready to burst.
She gripped her pen tighter, trying to force her thoughts back to the math problems in front of her. But the harder she tried, the more her vision blurred. A sharp pain shot through her head, and she instinctively reached up to touch her nose, feeling a warm trickle. Her fingers came away smeared with blood.
Charlotte (gasping, her voice trembling): “No… not now. Please, not now.”
Panic surged through her as she grabbed a tissue, pressing it against her nose to stop the bleeding. Her hands shook, and tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision even more. The fear and anxiety that had been simmering beneath the surface threatened to overwhelm her, and she felt herself spiraling.
Charlotte (whispering through gritted teeth, trying to steady her breath): “You have to focus. You can’t fall apart now.”
But the pressure was too much. The weight of the secrets she was carrying, the fear of being discovered, and the relentless demands of her studies were crushing her. The room felt like it was closing in on her, the sticky notes and papers mocking her futile attempts to keep everything together.
Charlotte wiped the blood from her nose, her breaths coming in shallow, shaky gasps. She stared down at her notebook, the equations now smeared with drops of blood. The sight of it made her stomach churn, and she had to fight the urge to throw the notebook across the room.
Charlotte (whispering, voice barely audible): “I can’t… I can’t keep doing this.”
She closed her eyes, letting the notebook fall to the floor. The bloodied tissue crumpled in her hand, and she pressed it harder against her nose, trying to stop the bleeding. But it wasn’t just the physical pain that was tearing her apart—it was the fear, the loneliness, the crushing weight of expectations that she couldn’t escape.
The pressure was suffocating, and in that moment, Charlotte felt completely and utterly alone.
YOU ARE READING
The Secrets Of Ravenstone
Fantasía"You want to fight it, but every part of you is screaming for me." At Ravenstone University, Charlotte Collins, an average student, struggles to keep up with the intense academic demands while grappling with the dark mysteries of the institution. Wi...
