The moment that notification popped up on my screen, my stomach dropped. Rejected. They didn't want my design. And worse, I knew why. The dress hadn't been perfect—it hadn't been good enough. No matter how many hours I'd spent stitching, re-stitching, pouring myself into every seam, I'd failed. I couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that I could've done more.
By the time I got home, I barely managed to toss my things onto the floor before collapsing face-down onto my bed. My thoughts twisted in endless, vicious circles.
I should have done better. It could have been better. Why wasn't it better?
The pressure was relentless. Before I knew it, the weight of my own failure finally pulled me under into a fitful sleep.
