Failure has a taste.
It is bitter, like over-brewed tea left to cool in the open air. It lingers on the tongue, heavy and unwelcome, seeping into every breath, every thought.
I can still feel the dull ache in my stomach, a reminder of how my own body had turned against me when I needed it most. The night before the exam, I had felt the first stirrings of unease—a cramp here, a twisting pain there. By morning, it was unbearable. Cold sweat, nausea, the relentless churning of my gut.
I had sat through the exam anyway, gripping my pen with trembling fingers, forcing myself to focus even as waves of dizziness threatened to pull me under. I had endured.
And it hadn't been enough.
The numbers on the page mocked me.
Not a complete failure, but not enough. Not for me.
Not for what I had promised myself.
I stare at the results, hands tightening into fists. My vision blurs—not from tears, but from the sheer force of my own disappointment.
I should have done better.
I could have done better.
If only I had prepared more. If only I had been stronger. If only my body hadn't betrayed me.
The excuses are worthless.
All that matters is the result.
And the result is not enough.
——
"Don't be so hard on yourself."
My mother's voice is gentle, but I hear the underlying worry in it. She watches me carefully as she sets down a cup of warm tea beside me, her movements deliberate, and practiced.
She has always known.
She has always seen through me, even when I try to hide it.
But she does not understand.
I do not want comfort.
I want to be better.
I keep my eyes on the table, unwilling to meet her gaze. If I do, I might break. And I do not have the luxury of breaking.
"I should have done better," I say, my voice flat.
"You did your best."
"That's not the point."
She sighs, taking a seat across from me. "Then what is the point?"
I do not answer right away. How could I?
The point is that I cannot afford to fail. That every misstep, every shortcoming, every less-than-perfect moment is a weight pressing down on me, threatening to crush me under its impossible expectations.
The point is that I have spent my entire life believing that success is the only thing that matters.
Not effort. Not growth.
Just. The Result.
And I have failed.
——
She doesn't push me to speak. She knows better than that.
Instead, she reaches out, placing a warm hand over mine.
"You work too hard," she murmurs. "You always have."
I want to tell her that she's wrong. That I haven't worked hard enough. That if I had, then maybe—just maybe—I wouldn't feel like this.
But I can't.
Because part of me knows she's right.
I have been running for so long, chasing something just out of reach, never once stopping to question why.
And now that I have stumbled, I do not know how to stand back up.
The bitterness is still there, still clinging to the back of my throat.
But for the first time in a long while, I let the warmth of the tea seep into my fingers.
I do not drink it.
But I do not push it away either.