It's already dark, still waiting for my name to be called, echoing in those huge speakers for the crowd to hear— wanting everyone to know that I surpassed them in a competition I dedicated my life to.
I felt uneasy in my chair, practicing my smile, biting an imaginary medal, striking poses that would make me the point of the camera. I even stood up, almost ready to walk onto the stage without even waiting for my name.
But I never heard my name. Because the host never mentioned it.
The shiver went down my spine; I was shaking, tears building up to the point where it was hard to stop them from falling. I could only bow my head, hoping no camera could catch my sour face or my broken pride.
I feel a pat on my back, it was my coach, comforting me that there will always be next year. The same coach who showered me with praises, declared me the school's hope, and said I deserved to win.
Looking at my schoolmates who were able to taste the spotlight on the stage, it broke me more, almost making me want to quit on the spot.
And after that pat on the back, it's time to head back.
The following days made me bitter, my classmates and teachers cheering on me despite my bitter defeat. It felt like an insult, a sarcastic stab to the heart. Representing the school wasn't enough; I don't want to go back to this lifeless classroom yet. I had a real life outside it— my extracurricular activities, my competitions. All that I poured my heart and mind in.
While I sit in my school chair, supposed to be listening to the teacher's lecture, I can't help but wonder why I was never enough at that time, and am I really worthy of competing? Because if I were— next year wouldn't feel like eternity.
Or there won't be next year.
Written by Almira Cereno, Insight PH
Almira Cereno, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
