I stretched my arms as I finished revising the final chapter for tomorrow's exam. Taking off my glasses, I placed them gently on the table and rubbed my tired eyes, yawning softly. My hair was tied up in a messy bun, strands slipping loose around my face. After turning off the light, I let myself fall onto the bed, exhaustion finally pulling me under...I checked my phone...it was 1 a.m. I sighed quietly and set my alarm for 4 am, knowing I had only a few hours left to rest before another round of studying. Then I placed my phone beside the bed and closed my eyes... My whole body and mind relaxed, as if a heavy burden had finally been lifted. For a moment, everything felt calm and weightless. But then the thought of tomorrow's test crept back in, and my heart grew heavy again, anxiety settling quietly in my chest .I groaned in frustration and turned to the other side. Though my body was exhausted, sleep refused to come, and my mind wouldn't quiet down as thoughts kept racing endlessly. Before I knew it, the alarm blared through the silence.... it was 4 a.m. I stared at the ceiling in disbelief, barely feeling like I had slept at all.
I managed to drag myself out of bed, barely having any energy left. After washing my face, I forced myself to start studying again. Soon, I got ready and went to write my exam. I felt like I had done well enough, and when the results were announced, I had secured 9th place. All the glory went to the top-scoring students, while my sleepless hard work quietly faded into the background... Though everyone said I did well, I couldn't shake the feeling that, deep down, they believed I could have done better. Their praise sounded distant, almost hollow, and instead of pride, I felt a quiet, gnawing dissatisfaction settling within me. I don't even know if my parents are satisfied. The thought that they might not be eats me up inside, lingering in my mind and refusing to let me rest. And when they hear about the other top scorers, I suddenly feel like I become less. A few remarks, casually spoken, cut deeper than they should... even though I try my best to ignore them.
Soon, I found myself unable to focus at all. No matter how hard I tried to sit still and concentrate, a quiet voice in my head kept whispering that it wouldn't matter... that even if I gave it everything I had, it still wouldn't be enough. The thought of disappointing everyone wrapped around me like a shadow I couldn't step out of. It didn't push me to work harder the way people say pressure is supposed to. Instead, it drained me. My mind would drift in the middle of a sentence, imagining results day, comparing marks, replaying possible reactions. I overthought every small mistake before I had even made it. The fear of not being "good enough" grew louder than my actual preparation. Instead of revising chapters, I revised worst-case scenarios in my head... instead of solving problems, I created new ones in my thoughts. And the more I worried, the less I could truly focus... trapped in a cycle where anxiety replaced effort, and doubt quietly overshadowed everything I had already worked so hard for. I was searching for something... anything... that could lessen the heaviness inside me, some way to quiet the noise in my head and untangle the thoughts that refused to leave me alone. Nothing seemed to work. Distractions faded, reassurances felt temporary, and even silence felt unbearably loud. And then, almost without thinking, I reached for a pen. If I couldn't say it out loud... maybe I could write it out.
Starting that day, I began writing every single night. At first, it was only a few pages, then a few more, and before I knew it, I had filled entire notebooks with pieces of my days. Every situation, every small embarrassment, every quiet victory, and every fear I was too ashamed to say out loud found its way onto paper. When I ran out of notebooks, I collected old sheets of paper, the backs of assignments, unused pages from rough books, anything I could find. My thoughts did not feel as overwhelming once they were written down. They looked smaller somehow, contained within ink and margins. Writing became my escape, my silent listener, the only place where I did not have to compete or prove anything.
One afternoon, my mom asked me to clean the attic. I climbed up the narrow stairs, expecting nothing more than dust, cobwebs, and forgotten boxes. The air felt thick and still, carrying the scent of old wood and time. As I shifted through the clutter and moved a pile of boxes aside, something caught my eye. It did not look like the rest of the stored things. It felt different, almost out of place, and for a reason I could not explain, a strange feeling settled in my chest as I reached towards it. The moment I touched it, my heart started thumping weirdly, I brushed it off as curiosity but it was something more. I slowly pulled it out and the dust flew, making me cough. I slowly put it down and wiped it with a clean cloth. It was brown in color, with intricate details, that looked meticulously designed. I could tell this was an important book to someone. I opened it. It had torn pages. And the way it was torn, I could tell, it was torn atrociously. A question ran in my mind. Why would someone who loved this book, do this? "Azalea! Are you done, cleaning???" My mom shouted from down stairs. "I stumbled closing the book abruptly, "No, I am cleaning!" I answered. "Hurry up!" she said. I hummed and continued cleaning.
I placed the book at a noticeable place, so I could take it while going back to my room. Not knowing something mysterious awaits me