The students in 310 said Artemis was perfect.
Her handwriting--spotless.
Her posture--poised.
Her grades--polished.
Each teacher praised her, every parent envied her, and all of her classmates compared themselves to her until admiration turned to tranquil dread.
But perfection itself costs a price, and Artemis paid in silence.
Inside her classroom--Room 310--the air was always as thick as spilled blood with the scent of ink and pure tiredness. Her lamp never turned off; her notebooks layered higher than her dreams. Every page bore the matching quiet desperation: rewritten essays, revised formulas, erased answers rewritten again. Her hands shook, but her pen never stopped.
“I can rest after this term,” she whispered once.
Then again, the next term.
And once more as ever.
When the recognition ceremony arrived, in the auditorium, as the quietness fractured, applause spilled out like broken glass. Artemis smiled, eminently elegant as ever, but her lips trembled like cracked porcelain. The gold medal placed around her neck gleamed under the lights--so heavy it burdened into her skin, down to her bones.
That night, she remained in the restroom after the awarding ceremony. The luminous light murmured faintly, the mirror fogged from her unsteady breaths. She wiped and cleaned the surface with a shuddering hand, meeting her reflection.
In the mirror, her reflection smiled deeper than she did.
“Another one?” it asked.
She laughed half-heartedly. “Just one more award, then I’ll rest.”
The reflection tilted its head. “You mentioned that last semester too.”
Her fingers clenched around the sink’s edge. Her smile was painted on, her eyes untouched by its color. The faucet flowed in rhythm—tick, tick, tick—like a clock vastly awfully unaware of her borrowed time.
Back at her home, in the bedroom, she controlled herself to breathe normally again.
Her trophies placed on the shelves like gravestones, her certificates framed like epitaphs.
The medal still laid cold heavily around her neck, as she sat at her chair beneath the quiet radiate of her lamp.
She tore her eyes away, forcing a smile, forcing a breath.
But as she placed her medals above her desk it began to tremble--metal chiming, haunting softly.
After, one by one, they started to whisper silently…
“Never enough. Never enough!”
The sound immediately grew, overlapping, rising-- voices metallic and unforgiving.
Her trophies burned softly like eyes. Her medals danced weakly like pendulums counting down.
Artemis clutched hardly at her chest. “Please…”, she screamed, “I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT!”
The whispers rose to a never-ending echo.
“NEVER ENOUGH!”
As the next day arrived, by morning Room 310 was evidently silent. Artemis sat collapsed over her desk, surrounded by fluttering report cards. Her veins were black with ink. Her medals rested beside her hand. The mirror, as well, was shattered– its surface interlaced like broken glass over her smiling self.
It was said her soul still haunted there, bound between pages and pressure.
After her death, Room 310 was sealed.
But students who encountered the door of 310 promised they could still hear it—the faint scratching of pencils, the sound of pages turning, and, if you listened too long, a voice speaking low can be heard from inside the locked door:
A / for Alive
B / for Barely
C / for Cracking
D / for Dead but still submitting
F / for Finally free.
Occasionally, at midnight, the classroom lights flash on by themselves.
The whiteboard writes a name in shaky black ink—
ARTEMIS.
And below it, in looping cursive:
“Still not enough.”
The next day, the teacher smiled, “Class, please welcome our new top student.”
Her handwriting--spotless.
Her posture--poised.
Her grades--polished.
Each teacher praised her, every parent envied her, and all of her classmates compared themselves to her until admiration turned to tranquil dread.
But perfection itself costs a price, and Artemis paid in silence.
Inside her classroom--Room 310--the air was always as thick as spilled blood with the scent of ink and pure tiredness. Her lamp never turned off; her notebooks layered higher than her dreams. Every page bore the matching quiet desperation: rewritten essays, revised formulas, erased answers rewritten again. Her hands shook, but her pen never stopped.
“I can rest after this term,” she whispered once.
Then again, the next term.
And once more as ever.
When the recognition ceremony arrived, in the auditorium, as the quietness fractured, applause spilled out like broken glass. Artemis smiled, eminently elegant as ever, but her lips trembled like cracked porcelain. The gold medal placed around her neck gleamed under the lights--so heavy it burdened into her skin, down to her bones.
That night, she remained in the restroom after the awarding ceremony. The luminous light murmured faintly, the mirror fogged from her unsteady breaths. She wiped and cleaned the surface with a shuddering hand, meeting her reflection.
In the mirror, her reflection smiled deeper than she did.
“Another one?” it asked.
She laughed half-heartedly. “Just one more award, then I’ll rest.”
The reflection tilted its head. “You mentioned that last semester too.”
Her fingers clenched around the sink’s edge. Her smile was painted on, her eyes untouched by its color. The faucet flowed in rhythm—tick, tick, tick—like a clock vastly awfully unaware of her borrowed time.
Back at her home, in the bedroom, she controlled herself to breathe normally again.
Her trophies placed on the shelves like gravestones, her certificates framed like epitaphs.
The medal still laid cold heavily around her neck, as she sat at her chair beneath the quiet radiate of her lamp.
She tore her eyes away, forcing a smile, forcing a breath.
But as she placed her medals above her desk it began to tremble--metal chiming, haunting softly.
After, one by one, they started to whisper silently…
“Never enough. Never enough!”
The sound immediately grew, overlapping, rising-- voices metallic and unforgiving.
Her trophies burned softly like eyes. Her medals danced weakly like pendulums counting down.
Artemis clutched hardly at her chest. “Please…”, she screamed, “I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT!”
The whispers rose to a never-ending echo.
“NEVER ENOUGH!”
As the next day arrived, by morning Room 310 was evidently silent. Artemis sat collapsed over her desk, surrounded by fluttering report cards. Her veins were black with ink. Her medals rested beside her hand. The mirror, as well, was shattered– its surface interlaced like broken glass over her smiling self.
It was said her soul still haunted there, bound between pages and pressure.
After her death, Room 310 was sealed.
But students who encountered the door of 310 promised they could still hear it—the faint scratching of pencils, the sound of pages turning, and, if you listened too long, a voice speaking low can be heard from inside the locked door:
A / for Alive
B / for Barely
C / for Cracking
D / for Dead but still submitting
F / for Finally free.
Occasionally, at midnight, the classroom lights flash on by themselves.
The whiteboard writes a name in shaky black ink—
ARTEMIS.
And below it, in looping cursive:
“Still not enough.”
The next day, the teacher smiled, “Class, please welcome our new top student.”
E
Written by Erica Crisostomo, Insight PH
Erica Crisostomo, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
