TICKING DREAMS

1

The numbers didn’t make sense anymore.

They used to. Once, they lined up neatly in her head—answers forming before the teacher even finished the question. Once, marks were just numbers she collected without thinking, like breathing.

Now they stared back at her from the page, red ink circling them like accusations.

37/100.

She kept her eyes on the paper, even after everyone else had moved on. The classroom buzzed with whispers—some relieved, some careless, some amused. A chair scraped. Someone laughed.

“Is this your best?” her teacher’s voice cut through, sharp and flat.

She didn’t answer.

“I expected more from you,” he continued, not loudly—but loud enough. It was worse that way. Controlled disappointment always felt heavier than anger.

A few heads turned.

That was the worst part. Not the marks. Not even the scolding.

The looks.

Confused. Curious. Judging.

She sank lower in her seat, fingers tightening around the edge of the paper until it crumpled slightly. Her throat felt dry, but swallowing didn’t help.

“I’ll do better next time,” she managed, barely audible.

“See that you do.”

The words followed her even after the bell rang.

Home wasn’t quieter.

It never was.

Her bag dropped softly near the door, but the sound still seemed too loud in the silence of the house. Her mother looked up from the kitchen—not saying anything at first, just watching.

That look again.

Not anger. Not exactly.

Something worse.

“What happened?” her mother asked finally.

She hesitated. That was enough.

“Results came?”

A pause.

“…Yes.”

“And?”

There it was.

She handed over the paper without meeting her eyes.

The silence stretched longer this time.

Then a sigh.

“You’re not focusing.”

Her father didn’t look up from his phone. “Always distracted,” he added, like it was already decided. Like it had always been true.

“I studied,” she said quickly. Too quickly. It sounded weak even to her.

“Then why this?” her mother tapped the paper lightly, as if the answer might fall out.

No answer came.

Only the same heavy quiet.

“You used to be better than this,” her father said, still not looking at her.

Used to.

The word stayed.

That night, her books lay open in front of her.

The same page.

Unchanged.

She read the same line again.

And again.

Nothing stayed.

The words blurred, slipping away the moment she tried to hold them. Her pen hovered over the notebook, unmoving. The clock ticked loudly somewhere in the room, each second dragging against her thoughts.

Tick.

She pressed her fingers to her temple.

Tick.

Why couldn’t she focus?

Tick.

Why was everything so… heavy?

Her chest tightened, breath coming unevenly. She shut the book abruptly, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

But there was no one to hear it.

The breakdown didn’t come all at once.

It cracked.

Slowly.

Like something fragile giving in under pressure it couldn’t carry anymore.

Tears blurred her vision before she realized she was crying. At first, she tried to stop—wiping them away quickly, biting her lip, forcing herself to breathe normally.

It didn’t work.

The more she tried to hold it in, the worse it got.

Her shoulders shook, quiet at first, then not.

“I studied… I tried…” the words broke apart between sobs, as if she needed to say them out loud to make them real.

But they didn’t feel real.

Nothing did.

The room felt smaller. The air heavier. Her own thoughts louder than anything else.

You’re falling behind.

You’re not good enough anymore.

Everyone can see it.

She pressed her hands over her ears, but it didn’t stop.

It was all inside.