The Mask We Wear

Lyra (Episode 3)

It had been agonizingly difficult for me to survive at Ashbourne. The moment I stepped through those grand gates, I knew this place was going to be a battlefield. I had hoped for a fresh start, a chance to escape the emotional trauma that had haunted me for years. But the truth is, nothing could have prepared me for how hard it would be. The hierarchical imbalance between seniors and juniors was unbearable. I quickly learned that respect wasn’t something you earned here—it was something you fought for.
Every day felt like an uphill struggle. I’d wake up at the crack of dawn, already bracing myself for what the day would bring. The pressure was relentless. Academic expectations weighed down on me like a boulder I couldn’t shake off. It wasn’t just about learning; it was about survival. Every exam, every project, every assignment felt like a test of my worth, not just as a student but as a person. The competition was fierce, and the stakes were high. Failing didn’t just mean a bad grade; it meant losing your place in the hierarchy, losing your standing among your peers.
But it wasn’t just academics. The social dynamics here were unlike anything I had ever experienced. The friendships were odd, almost transactional. People didn’t just make friends here; they formed alliances. Every interaction felt like a chess move—calculated, strategic. And if you weren’t careful, if you trusted the wrong person or revealed too much, it could all come crashing down. I learned quickly that people here weren’t always who they appeared to be. You had to be guarded, always on edge, always questioning.
Then there was the schedule. God, the schedule. It was brutal. Every single day was a blur of classes, assignments, and endless responsibilities. There was hardly any time to breathe, let alone think. I would come back to my dorm room exhausted, both physically and mentally, but sleep didn’t come easy. The fear of falling behind, of not measuring up, kept me awake. I would lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I could make it through another day. The exhaustion was bone-deep, the kind that no amount of sleep could fix.
Ashbourne was strict—beyond strict, really. The rules felt suffocating. You couldn’t step out of line, not even for a second. The fear of punishment, of losing what little standing I had managed to gain, was constant. We lived under a microscope, every action, every word scrutinized. There was no room for mistakes. One wrong move, one misstep, and everything you had worked for could be taken away in an instant.
And then there was the profile. At Ashbourne, your reputation was everything. It wasn’t enough to just be good at academics or sports; you had to be someone. You had to stand out, make a name for yourself. But that wasn’t easy. Every day felt like a performance. You had to constantly prove yourself, show that you belonged, that you were worth something. It was exhausting, trying to maintain this image of perfection when, inside, I felt like I was crumbling.
I wasn’t alone in this struggle, though. I was lucky enough to find Carla. She was my lifeline. From the moment we met, it was like we just clicked. She understood me in ways no one else did. Carla wasn’t like the others; she wasn’t here to impress anyone or play the social games that everyone else seemed so obsessed with. We were alike in so many ways—both outsiders, both trying to make sense of this place that felt more like a prison than a school.
Carla and I would spend hours talking, sharing our frustrations, our fears, our hopes. She became my anchor, the one person I could rely on when everything else felt too overwhelming. We would sneak out to the courtyard at night, just to escape the suffocating pressure for a little while. Those quiet moments with her were my sanctuary, the only times I felt like I could breathe. Without her, I don’t know how I would’ve made it through that first year.
But even with Carla by my side, it didn’t stop the overwhelming feeling that I was constantly being judged, that no matter how hard I tried, I would never be good enough. Every student here seemed to have something I didn’t—whether it was their flawless grades, their athletic prowess, or their natural ability to charm everyone around them. I constantly felt like I was falling short, like I was always just one step behind everyone else.
The pressure weighed heavily on me, and there were days when I thought about quitting, packing up and leaving Ashbourne behind. But then, I’d remind myself why I came here in the first place. I had fought so hard to get accepted. This was supposed to be my chance to escape everything I had endured at home, to prove to myself that I was capable of more. I couldn’t let Ashbourne break me, not after everything I had already been through.
The first year was the hardest. It felt like I was drowning, barely keeping my head above water. But somehow, I survived. I pushed through the exhaustion, the fear, the constant doubt. I threw myself into my studies, into every exam and project, trying to block out the rest of the chaos around me. And by the end of the year, I had something to show for it. My final grade came in as an ‘A.’ I had passed, and not just passed, but excelled. I finished the year in 22nd place.
It was overwhelming when I saw my results. I had spent so long thinking that I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t belong here, and now I had proof that I could succeed, even in a place as unforgiving as Ashbourne. But the feeling was bittersweet. I had worked so hard for this moment, and yet, the toll it had taken on me was undeniable. I was proud, yes, but I was also exhausted—drained from a year of fighting, of constantly proving myself, of trying to fit into a place that never felt like home.