Looking Back

The things people said—even my own thoughts—still hurt sometimes, long after the moments had passed. They cling to the corners of my mind like stubborn shadows at dusk. I used to think time would wash them away. But some don’t fade—they just learn to whisper softer.

Thinking about the first that ever cracked me open brings me right back to middle school.

We were preparing for the school's annual cultural event, and our class had settled on doing a recital. It felt simple enough at the time—just kids trying something together, and looking back, it was just one of those foolish, fleeting things kids get fired up about for no real reason. If you asked me now, I’d laugh and flat-out refuse. But back then, there was one memory that had already taken root inside me... my older brother... standing tall in the center of a spotlight. His class had done a recital too. He’d been the lead. And in the audience, my mother’s eyes had glistened—not from the lights, but with pride. That image had burned itself into me, soft and glowing. I wanted that. That same flicker of pride in her gaze, reflecting back at me.

So when our teacher asked who wanted to audition for lead roles, my hand flew up almost before I realized it. Faster than my own heartbeat. My chest tightened with excitement, nerves firing like tiny sparks under my skin. In that moment, I felt untouchable.

The teacher scribbled down our names and handed out snippets of the script. We were to perform a selected part the next day. That night, I remember clinging to those papers like they were some kind of hidden treasure maps.

"The Musical Adventures of Oliver and Friends"—a cheerful, generic children's play about discovering the magic of music and teamwork. But the part we’d been asked to prepare was special. Oliver's solo. A spotlight scene.

From the stumbling stars of the shaky nights,
to the notes all wrong, to melodies that sing our bond.
With every friend, I am but a new me,
in growth and grit, this heart has burned.

That stanza etched itself into me. I must have whispered it a hundred times in my room, staring at the wall like it held an audience only I could see.

The next day, we lined up outside the teacher’s lounge, an anxious little parade of hopefuls. I stood somewhere in the middle, pressed between fidgeting classmates and their nervous chatter. Each time someone stepped inside, a sliver of my confidence peeled away, like paint flaking off an old frame. My heart drummed louder with every footstep echoing down the hall.

I dared to peek through the door’s narrow gap, just once. The voice coming from inside was strong, rich with feeling. His words landed like feathers and hammers all at once. He’s good, I thought, my hand tightening around the folded script. Really good.

But I wasn’t going to lose. Not without trying. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the door closed like sealing doubt behind it.

And then… my name was called.

I drew in a shaky breath, pressing the paper flat against my chest as if it could calm my racing pulse. My fingers trembled slightly, smudging the edge where my thumb clung to the words. This wasn’t just a performance. It was a confession. A prayer.

The teacher’s office was small and cluttered, the scent of old paper and chalk hanging in the air like a memory. Bookshelves leaned under their weight, trophies sat forgotten in dusty corners, and the sunlight slicing through the blinds gave the room a strange, patchy warmth. My teacher looked up, her smile gentle, eyes soft with something between fatigue and patience.

"Alright, Reol," she said, folding her hands. "Show me what you’ve prepared."

I nodded and squared my shoulders. The script trembled slightly in my grip, a fragile thing holding all my hopes. I began to speak. The words spilled from me like light through stained glass—broken in places, but colored by something honest. Something raw.

And then… silence.

My lungs dragged in air. My chest rose and fell, aching slightly from the effort. My eyes clung to hers, pleading for a flicker of approval. Something. Anything.

But what came wasn’t warmth.

Her smile faded. Her brow tightened. It was subtle, but unmistakable—like a soft curtain falling over a bright window.

It chilled the room. The dust in the air seemed to still. I could almost hear the dull beat of my own heart, slow and uneasy.

"Reol," she said, her voice clipped and cold, "be honest with me. Can you truly call that a recital?"

Her words cut through me with the clean efficiency of a blade. My lips parted, but the air refused to come. My fingers clutched the paper tighter, crumpling the edge.

"I... I did my best," I managed, the words brittle, barely audible.

Her gaze didn’t soften. It didn’t even flicker.

"Go back to your class, Reol. Focus on your studies for now. Next—Andrew!"

That was it. No feedback. No gentle redirect. Just dismissal. Like my effort was a misstep she’d seen too many times before.

I stood frozen, the silence still pressing down on me. I wanted to look back at her—just one more time. Maybe she’d glance at me. Maybe she’d smile, even faintly, to soften the blow. But she didn’t. Her eyes had already dropped to the list in her hand.

The question echoed again, louder this time.

Can you truly call that a recital?

And just like that, the light began to dim inside me. One flicker at a time. The shades of the room felt heavier, darker—as if the very walls were closing in. She hadn’t seen my effort. Or maybe she had, and deemed it worthless.

It didn’t matter.

All it had taken was one sentence to undo every step I’d taken to get here.

And the shades kept getting darker… and darker...

The next one, maybe a year or two later, was during the big sports festival. I had promised myself not to let what happened before to shape me, to step out from under the cloud of that past letdown. During gym class, I consistently scored better than most on fitness tests. My build was solid for my age, frutof countless afternoons spent hoisting myself up on the monkey bars or doing pull-ups on the rusty bar at the back of the school rooftop. I don't know who planned to put it there, and I'm sure most students don't even know they are even there in the first place, but for him, or her, I only have gratitude. So, with a healthy dose of nerve-pumping excitement, I decided to throw my hat in the ring for the upcoming sports festival's sprinting races.

When the day came for the tryouts, a few of us from the class were taken to the track. The sun was high, painting everything in gold. My heart was dancing a frantic tango. We stood behind the starting line one beside the other. This is it. My chance to shine for sure. If I beat them here and now, then I might be able to look straight at heir eyes too. Then they'll have to recognize me for sure. 

Or that's what I'd hoped for.

Our gym instructor, Coach Ramirez, was a Latino man with a booming voice and a sunburnt nose. I still remember his name quite well, as he used to praise me every now and then for my P.E scores. He surveyed the hopeful faces lined up before him, before clapping his meaty hands together. "Alright, maggots! Let's see what you're all made of! Either you are the cheetahs… or well, the folks who like to take leisurely walks in the park!" 

All of us stood along the starting line. "You're Reol, right? Good luck." And unknown voice. Maybe he's from a different class. I just nodded my head without looking straight at him. My world had already shrunk to a single point – the line at the very end. "On your marks..." A bead of sweat traced a cool path down my temple. "...Ready..." My breath caught in my throat.

"...Go!" 

Then, with a crack of the starting pistol. I could feel the wind on my face, along with my legs moving like they knew what to do.

And just as I wished, I came in first in the first race. I threw my arms up in triumph, a goofy grin splitting my face. I actually beat them all! I came first! 

But the moment of triumph was short-lived.

A disgruntled murmur arose from behind. I turned to see Clint approaching Coach Ramirez, his scowl creasing his normally carefree features. Clint, if you would say, was the very essence of athleticism in our class. He was the one who always ruled the track, the court, basically any competition we had. "Whoa, Coach, that wasn't fair. The starting pistol was practically silent! I actually couldn't hear you properly, so I made a late start."

I scoffed under my breath. Coach Ramirez ran a hand through his already messy hair. "I think Reol was really quick," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "He's got potential for sure…"

"But sir…" Clint interrupted, his voice sharp now. "Maybe we could just have one more try, just to be fair?"

The sinking feeling intensified, morphing into a cold dread. I finally understood what was going on. Clint wanted to show me he was still in charge, to make sure he stayed the undisputed king of the track. Coach Ramirez hesitated, clearly torn. But after a few more seconds of Clints gaze, finally, he sighed. "Alright, alright," he grumbled. "One more time. But let's make it quick. We've got a whole lot of events to get through today." Coach agreed, though not too happily, and I prepared myself, my thoughts all over the place.

Back on the track, I concentrated on my breath and the beat of my heart. Suddenly, Clint appeared next to me. He took is positing on my right, keeping his eyes straight towards me. The strokes of black were sharper, as if just looking at him would choke me to death.  "Don't start thinking you're really good. Luck was on your side," his voice was just a whisper, but it still had me sucking air from the fear... and anxiety. 

This was the reality of competition, I realized. Those who clung to the top spot were willing to play dirty to keep it. A bitter lesson, but a lesson nonetheless.

The starting pistol cracked, the sharp sound slicing through the tense air again. I surged forward, determined to prove Clint wrong, to prove to myself that I wasn't just a fluke. But as I pushed into my stride, out of nowhere, Clint's leg shot out infront of me, sprawling onto the coarse track. The next second, pain errupted, a white-hot shock that stole my breath.

Clint towered over me, masking a mock concern. "Oh, Reol! I'm terribly sorry," he drawled, but his voice was dripping with insincerity. "My foot just… well, it seems to have a mind of its own sometimes."

My fists were clenched to punch his stupid face any moment. The scrape on my knee stung, but the betrayal burned hotter. "Don't lie to me, Clint!" I spat, my voice tight with anger. "You did that on purpose!"

He feigned innocence, with an exaggerated surprise. "What? Purpose? I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." 

"Don't play dumb," I pressed, glaring up at him. "You wanted me to fall so you could win. You couldn't handle losing."

The puzzle started to make sense. It wasn't just about the race now. It was about power, about him wanting to be in control. And like always, I was tossed to the sidelines. Coach stepped in, stopping the fight from getting worse, and I was told to go sit on the side of the track. 

 I walked away, holding onto my scraped and bleeding knees. 

It's the same everywhere. Wherever I go. The same disappointments and regret tagged along with me.

"Reol. Reol."

The classroom was filled with quiet sounds,A cough here, a page shuffle there – the sounds blended into a background melody that usually soothed my nerves. Today, though, it felt like a pressure cooker, a kind of pressure that seemed to sink deep into my bones while I sat, wrapped up in my thoughts. My mind was a storm of uncertainties, a swirl of doubts that I was way too used to.

The faraway call yanked me back from my deep thinking, and I looked up suddenly. Our math teacher, Ms. Hilary, was there at the front, holding a bunch of answer sheets. Her voice was a little irritated as she said my name again. "Up here, please," she said, gesturing towards the front of the room.

I got up, a strange feeling settling in, like an invisible thread tying me to her stern look. The distance from my desk to the front of the room seemed longer than usual. Reaching her desk, I stopped, my gaze flitting nervously between her and the stack of papers. Ms. Hilary held out a single test towards me, her lips pursed in a thin line. She pushed forward the paper towards me. I went ahead to grab it, but her fingers were still pushing down on it.

"Reol, had you even taken any preparation for the test?" 

Ms. Hilary's voice was a mix of being let down and wanting to know. 

"Y-yes, I did."

"Are you lying?"

I coughed a bit, as my own voice was sounding strange to me. "I really did... prepare for the test."

"Then explain this," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. She released the paper, and I hesitantly unfolded it, my heart speeding up as I saw the red marks and the number written at the top.

"Tell the class your marks."

"My marks...?" I gulped. My mind had stopped thinking anything. All those gazes made uttering even a single word impossible. 

"Just tell it quickly! There's still so many left."

"Fourty one... out of hundred," the words felt like a burden, like I was admitting something I'd rather hide. I could sense my classmates' eyes on me, their opinions and pity mixing in their expressions, and morphed in sly smiles which were the only things I could see beneath the strokes of black ink. My world was turning black along with it too.

Walking back to my desk, I sank into my chair, I stitched my eyes on the worn wooden surface. It was a lifeline in a sea of scrutiny. Every muscle in me tensed, a shield against the number of eyes that seemed to bore into my back, holding some kind of unsaid judgment. 

Dinner that night was a quiet affair. The clinking of silverware and hushed murmurs seemed muffled by an invisible barrier. When my mother finally placed a plate of steaming food in front of me, her gaze lingered for a beat too long. But mine stayed beneath. These days, I couldn't even look at the eyes of my parents. Not even neighbours, or those who pass by me when I walk along a road. My world was turning into a paper drenched in pitch black ink. Drowing all the good and bad along with it in an ugly mess. Though I wonder how much of it was even good.

Finally came the unexpected-expected. 

"Reol, did you get any answer scripts today?" My first instinct was to deflect, to bury my head in my meal and hope the topic wouldn't come up. But the thought of prolonging the inevitable truth felt heavier than the food itself. I could atleast bring up an excuse for my poor marks. But what's the point. my marks still remain the same. I reached into my bag and pulled out the crumpled test paper.

I let out a sigh, my shoulders slumping as if conceding defeat. I handed her the papers, avoiding her gaze as she sifted through them. 

"Just be honest with me, Reol. Are you really studying like you should be?"

My voice came out almost as a whisper, as if bringing out my desperation too. "Yeah, I am-"

"Then explain this!" 

I lowered my head, feeling the weight of guilt eating at me. My fingers gripped hard on my legs, to the point that it started hurting, curling my pajamas afterwards. The silence in the room was eating at me. Her stern look, the tumbling pot on the stove, everything. "I'm sorry... I really am. I'll do better next time." 

No... it's more like life itself had begun eating at me.

"Next time? When is that? What are you even saying?" Everything around me was going numb, and what I could only feel in her words were the irritation visible on her face too.

"I promise, I'll try my best next time, just please..."

Her tone shifted to a sharpness that felt like splinters of glass piercing all over my skin. "Look at your brother. He excels in everything. And then there's you."

I yearned to be like him, to achieve what he had. But no matter how earnestly I attempted, the distance between us appeared unbridgeable. His brilliance shone brightly, while I stayed hidden in the shadows, perpetually falling short.

"I can't even face your teachers with these grades... can't you understand that much? How much it hurts me?"

But I am trying, I wanted to shout. I'm putting everything into this. But the words got caught in my throat, choked by a rising tide of guilt.

"I'm sorry, mother. I'm truly sorry."

"No more apologies!" she cried with an overflowing exasperation. Immidietly afterwards, she swept the crumpled papers off the table in a single, frustrated gesture. "What are you even planning for your future? You can't seem to manage even the most basic things!"

The feeling was nothing but bitter. Like an after-taste down to my throat, with a venomous serpent threatening to coil around it. "Then why did you even..." I stopped myself, as if the bitterness were welling up inside. Why did you even bring me into this world, if all I am is a disappointment? But the words died on my tongue. To voice them would be to unleash a storm I couldn't control.

"You still have the nerve to talk back?" Her hand struck my cheek, a sharp slap that echoed the pain in my heart. She stood up and walked away to her room, leaving me alone with the wreckage of our conversation.

I sank to the floor, gathering the scattered papers with trembling hands. The numbers scrawled in harsh red ink weren't just marks on a page anymore. They were the same as my struggles, my shortcomings, and the weight of expectations I could never seem to meet. The throbbing pain in my cheek was a dull ache compared to the hollowness that had spread through me, a suffocating sense of inadequacy that squeezed the very air from my lungs.

My eyes were blurred with my own tears. Perhaps, I thought, if I had spoken up, if I had shown her the effort behind the grades, maybe, just maybe, she would have understood the depth of the hurt her words inflicted. But any of it seemed too out of reach.