DISEASE

"Some dreams are weighed in digits—and bleed in decimals."

Mun got a 4.5 GPA. It wasn't perfect. But it was more than decent. It was what thousands of others celebrated. But not in her home.

She entered the house quietly, the result folded carefully in her trembling hand. Her mother looked up, took one glance, and scoffed.

"Only 4.5? You've embarrassed us," she muttered, returning to her phone. Her father didn't even raise his eyes. And Nix, who once clung to her for comfort, laughed from the corner, playing a game on his tablet.

No words of "You tried." No sigh of relief. No warmth. Just silence. Silence that screamed louder than disappointment.

Mun sat down to eat. But the rice tasted like ash. Her stomach twisted. Not from hunger—but from the shame of hoping for anything.

Later that evening, she placed the result paper into her drawer. It had once felt like a symbol of triumph. Now, it was just paper. And paper, like dignity, could crumble easily.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her body drained and eyes wide open. She thought of the nights she'd studied with a flashlight when electricity failed, the hours she spent solving mock tests without a tutor, the prayers she whispered during dawn.

But the world didn't care about effort.

The rejections soon followed.

Mun had dreamed of a public university. A real one. A place where stories blossomed and futures began. But her result wasn't enough. Just under 80%. And just like that, every gate slammed shut.

Her mother's voice echoed through the house. "What will you do now, huh? Who's going to pay for your useless degree?"

Private universities were castles in the sky—too high, too expensive, too far from reality.

Her father barely looked at her now. As if she had failed them personally. As if she had dragged their name through the dirt with her 'not enough' result.

Mun tried to reason. She tried to explain. That she'd done everything within her reach. That she didn't have tutors or support. That she tried to carry the weight of an entire future on a single, tired back.

But they didn't hear her.

Or maybe, they simply didn't want to.

And she wondered, sitting by her window with the rejection email still blinking on her screen—what more did they want her to be?

Was she not enough, even when she gave her all?

And in that stillness, she began to realize something.

Maybe love wasn't always loud.

But neither was disappointment.

Sometimes, it just… lived in the walls. Quiet. Constant. Crushing.

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