FAILED PRODIGY

Do we exist because people we are conscious and breathing? Or do we exist because people acknowledge our existence? I often pondered this philosophical question at my free time.

“Ms. Lorn, here’s the data drive you asked for.”

“Just leave it on the table,” I replied.

I heard their voices as they walked away.

“Ms. Lorn is so pretty, even for thirty-five.”

“Yeah, but she’s totally unapproachable.”

“Right, she never talks about anything besides work.”

Why do people have to be so irritating? I could hear every word, but I didn’t let it bother me.

My name is Marie Lorn. I’m thirty five years old and have been teaching at Golden High School for nine years.

I grew up in an elegant, wealthy household where discipline was prized above all else. My parents taught me to hold myself with grace and an air of strictness, and my days fell into a polished but predictable rhythm. School, violin practice, studying—every day was the same, carrying a weight I didn’t quite understand.

One day, I scored the highest marks on a test, and for the first time, my parents praised me. That praise made me feel something, I never felt before. For the first time, I felt as if I was truly needed and loved.

I chased that feeling, eager to gain their attention and acknowledgement again. I practiced violin more intensely, studied even harder. The more I focused on becoming the perfect child, the more I withdrew from the world around me. I didn’t know how to talk to other kids at school. I tried talking with them a few times. But that failed and felt awkward. So, I gave up. I convinced myself that only my family mattered and that no one else was worth my time and energy.

My hard work paid off. Soon, people started calling me terms like ‘multi-talented’ and ‘prodigy’. I felt special—at least, that was what I told myself. But those words also placed a burden on me to work even harder, to keep proving that I was worthy of them.

Then, everything changed with the invention of Skill-sim chips. They were devices that could download knowledge and skills directly into the brain. At first, they were expensive, but over time, they became affordable and widely available. And suddenly, so called prodigies like me didn’t seem so special anymore. I wasn’t the rare, talented person I once was.

Somehow, I finished high school and earned a degree in History at university. It was not out of passion, but because it felt safe. Teaching became my profession, not because I loved it, but because it allowed me to exist quietly in the same controlled world I’d built for myself.

When it came to relationships, there were a few confessions from guys in high school and college. I turned them all down, not because I disliked them, but because I didn’t know how to deal with them. And now-a-days barely anyone approaches me. I felt as if I’d built an invisible armor around myself, an armor of strictness that protected me from connecting with others. Even my students seemed to keep their distance.

It didn’t really matter , at least that was what I told myself. Emotions like love, happiness, and connection are just the result of some chemicals in the brain, after all. Why connect with others when I could just buy those feel-good chips and experience those emotions on demand? I’d been doing that for years now. But sometimes, I still asked myself whether my life meant anything. I wonder if I’m really living, or whether I’m just waiting for the day it all ends.

“Ms. Lorn!” A familiar, annoyingly loud voice jolted me out of my thoughts.

I looked up, already knowing who it was. His name was Garp. He was one of my students, and his very existence seemed engineered to test my patience. The way he talked, the casual way he carried himself, how little he seemed to care about anything. I couldn’t understand how anyone could go through life so carelessly. And yet, people like him seemed to get everything they wanted, thanks to the skill-sim chips of today. It infuriated me to think that teenagers these days had it so easy, gaining skills instantly without an ounce of effort.

This kid was especially spoiled. He seemed to land himself in detention almost weekly for the most ridiculous things. Last time, he got caught selling protein pods on campus. Seriously! Who even eats those anymore? I’d also heard he was a walking disaster back in middle school. Nothing good could possibly come from talking to him.

“So, how did you get in here without asking permission?” I demanded with my usual cold tone. “What do you want?”

“I’m here for a favor,” he said, completely ignoring my question, wearing that infuriatingly cocky smirk I’d grown to despise.

“What is it?”

“I want you,” he replied smoothly.

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to be my club advisor, ma’am.”

I was taken aback. Thanks to my strict reputation, no student had ever dared ask me to advise their club. Yet here he was, asking as if it were the simplest thing in the world. How could he be so carefree? Did he not see how unapproachable I was?

“Why me?” I asked, my voice edged with annoyance. “There are plenty of other teachers. Why not ask one of them?”

He met my gaze with steady confidence. “I told you, I want you, not anyone else.”

His words left me speechless for a moment. Then, as if out of nowhere, he threw another surprise at me. “You used to play violin, right?”

I stared at him, caught off guard. “How do you know about that?”

His smirk softened into a genuine smile. “My mom was a huge fan of yours.”

That was unexpected. “Really?” I managed, still taken aback.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I grew up listening to your recordings.”

I remember uploading a few violin performances on the Z-Tube. But that was when I was a teenager. I had some followers. But after the invention of skill-sim chips, it became kind of meaningless. So I stopped uploading them. In fact after some years, I even stopped playing violin.

“What does my violin playing have to do with your club?” I asked, feeling skeptical.

“Glad you asked,” he replied with a mischievous smirk, like he was about to reveal some grand, absurd plan. “I’m starting a cooking club, and I want it to have that traditional vibe, like from the old days. So I need an advisor who fits that vibe, and I thought having you play violin while we cook would be, you know, really cool.”

His idea was so absurd that I almost felt the ground shift under me. “Are you out of your mind? You expect me to be the advisor for some… primitive cooking club? And play violin while you cook? Don’t be absurd. You know I’d never agree to something so foolish.”

“One day”

I blinked, not sure what he meant. “One day for what?”

“Give me one day. I’ll make you something so delicious that you’ll happily become our advisor,” he declared confidently.

“Did you not hear what I just said? No matter what you make, I’m not becoming your advisor. And besides, why would I even bother tasting your dish? There are taste-sim chips, after all.”

He grinned, undeterred. “Then let’s make it interesting. If my food tastes better than those mid-sim chips, you’ll have to agree to be our advisor.”

It was clear that arguing with him was pointless; he wasn’t going to give up. With a sigh, I reluctantly gave in. “Fine, but don’t expect anything. Now get lost.”

He smiled and left. I was irritated but also strangely excited to see what he would do next day.

CHAPTER 5 END

SOMETHING EXTRA BEFORE NEXT CHAPTER

Additional Information on MARIE LORN

Birthday: 30/03/3025

Height: 168 cm

Weight: 62 kg

Appearance: Her face is sharp, with high cheekbones that could easily be described as elegant but impassive. Her eyes are steel gray that carries an air of authority and distance. They are framed by thin, precise eyebrows, and there's often a faint crease between them, the mark of someone perpetually lost in thought. Her dark hair is long and straight, usually styled in a sleek, no-nonsense manner. It reaches just below her shoulders, and while it could easily be worn in a more relaxed or stylish way, she chooses practicality and cleanliness over flair, often pulling it back into a low ponytail or a neat bun. She dresses in a way that is polished and professional.