class of 2013 ✓

19 | self-handicapping

My conversation with Sazuri echoes in my head, making it extremely difficult to concentrate on fixing the lines of code that are plastered on the grey framed monitor. Even what's written on the pink sticky note hanging from the top isn't enough guidance to kickstart the part of my brain that has learned to compartmentalize this information. The answers are scribbled on the side with the adhesive patch, hidden from my view so I can challenge myself.

In the dim yolk lighting, the various symbols and digit combinations look understandable individually, yet foreign together. Another indication that it's too late to be working on a project. Either that, or it's a sign that I should address what's been eating at my psyche for the last few hours.

Why the hell did it bother me so much? After much deliberation, I know for a fact that it's not the fact that he doesn't trust me enough to tell me—though, admittingly, that did sting a little. I get it. I'm not entitled to knowing everything about him just like he's not entitled to know everything about me. Still, I feel a little misled because I thought he really was starting to warm up to me.

What is actually troubling me is something a lot more overarching. Something that I've been secretly and silently considering for a while. Something that I've ignored until this point. My hand itches over my mouse, and before I can register what's happening completely, I'm logging into my email, cursor on top of the compose button.

A sharp breath through grit teeth. Of course, all the words I wanted to string together are sitting in the back of my mind, waiting to be manifested onto the screen. Something—myself, possibly—is holding me back from pressing send.

I groan into the pad of my fingers. Gosh, why are things so fucking complicated all the damn time? Why does it feel like I'm constantly at a crossroads, forced to pick between two choices with very different endings, only for me to be hung up over the path not taken?

I Quit seems to type itself onto the subject line, followed by a short email that needs to be sent to the principal explaining exactly what I plan on forfeiting.

Woah. I freeze. I really need to think this through before I do anything impulsively that I might regret. Do I really wanna drop out? Is it really worth it to change all my plans for a boy?

For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to go to Harvard. It just made sense with my sister attending and the caliber of the academics, so I never thought about questioning it. The problem with that is people change, and basing your entire life off of a dream you don't know will come true is not a good idea. Maybe there is something meaningful to say here about reassessing my own indoctrinated identity, or maybe this symbolizes an entrance to independent thinking; a sign that I'm only getting older. Or perhaps I just need to stop reading too much into things.

Granted, I am holding on to a small chance of getting off numerous waitlists, but this is the only thing I have going for me to make me a more competitive applicant.

On autopilot, my finger finds its way to my knee, where it traces the ghost of the tattoo he drew on me a week ago. Obviously, the lines have completely faded away, but the design is permanently ingrained in my brain, and I can almost picture it clearly.

Deep down inside, I know this is the right thing to do. Especially after considering all he's done for me. Besides, I guess he does deserve it, possibly more than I do, and I know how hard he's worked to get to this point. And, as much as I didn't want to admit it, he's not just anybody. He's, well, he's special.

My thoughts wander to my sister, who I understood to be a compassionate person. What would she do in this scenario? Scratch that, she'd never be in this position because she'd have no trouble winning.