All this suffering—for what?
I dragged myself through years of school, even while sick, even when bullied, and even when it felt hopeless. Now I sit here with another letter of rejection in my hands, the proof of all that suffering.
It wasn't some kind of reward, it wasn't what I was promised, it's ... more suffering.
Only if I had an idea of where I would end up after all that effort and suffering, I wouldn't have put up with all that for so long.
And now I suffer in regret, regret that if I had spent all that time in something I enjoyed, I would have become good at it.
Why didn't I write? Why didn't I draw? Why didn't I live? It feels like I have coasted through life, even though I was giving it my all.
The voices that once urged me on are gone. In their place remain only whispers—whispers of regret.
