Music rises, a bold classical tune clashing with the wild rhythm pounding inside my chest.
Across the stage I move, step by practiced step, sunlight hitting my robe so it glimmers, almost alive, like fabric pretending to be something it is not.
Paper in hand, thin and quiet, lighter than air despite everything - the long hours, the sudden discoveries, the moments that cracked me open. This moment hums, but not how I thought it would. Weight sits nowhere near where they said it should.
Light bounces off edges I didn't know were sharp. A breath catches, then slips away.
Noise swells the second my name spills into the air.
That doctor thing - Brooklyn Miller, yes - feels off, like a coat buttoned wrong. A grin appears for the lens, one destined for Mom's fireplace display, stacked with trophies of growth.
Right here, time stops showing me successful. Whole, it pretends. Inside? Just silence, thick and total, where everyone should be.
