An Inconvenient Flame

Chapter 53

I shift in my chair for the third time in two minutes. My legs feel too heavy. My skin itches with restlessness. The back of my neck is damp, even though the AC is on. I twist my hair up into a bun, then immediately pull it loose again. 

Everything feels weird.

I stare at the open book in front of me. And close my eyes, my mind is somewhere else entirely.

A week.

Seven days.

That's it. Only seven days are left.

After everything, the early mornings, the revisions, the guilt when I took a break, after all of that, I'm here. And I feel like I'm standing on a ledge with no clue if the ground beneath is solid or just... fog.

I shut the book. Then open it again. My fingers twitch. I want to cry but can't. I want to scream but don't.

Instead, I get up and pace.

Three steps forward. Turn. Three steps back. My slippers make soft, useless sounds against the floor. I pause by the window, pull back the curtain — there's nothing outside that can fix this feeling.

My stomach twists like I've forgotten something important. As if I'm about to be late for something I can't name.

I press my fingers to my temples and breathe out through my nose. 

It doesn't help.

I've studied, I remind myself. I've done the work.

But my brain retorts,
And what if none of it is enough?

What if I step into that exam hall and everything I've stored just... disappears?

I clench my fist tightly. The nails biting into the flesh. The stinge grounding me.

I sit on the couch, but my arms won't relax. Every sound in the room claws at my senses, the ticking of the wall clock, the hum of the AC, the faint hum of the insects.

I rest my back against the headrest. Maybe if I sit like this, the anxiety will leave me.

It doesn't.

Instead, my throat tightens  slow at first, then suddenly sharp, like I've swallowed something too big, too jagged. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Inhale through my nose. I blink hard.

It's stupid.

There's nothing to cry about. I'm not sad. I'm not breaking.

I'm just... tired. No, not even tired scared. 

And that is so bad, fear is the last thing I should to feel after coming this far.

But the sting builds anyway. Right at the corner of my eyes.

I look up at the ceiling, like that'll stop them from falling.

One tear escapes anyway. Just one. And I catch it fast, wiping it with my hands  No crying.

I let my hands drop into my lap and stare at the ceiling.

I just want... stillness. 

But today, even my breath is betraying me.

You're fine, I tell myself again.

I press my palms together in my lap.

Thumb against thumb, finger against finger giving slow pressure. I match the rhythm to my breathing. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again.

It's something I started doing during my college days. Somehow, pressing my hands like this makes me feel less like I'm floating away.

Inhale. Exhale.