𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫 | ✎

xviii.

MY MIND IS everywhere, all at once. I've been researching all day; papers litter my desk like an intricate design; like a famous art piece. 

My hair is up in a messy bun, blonde strands still finding its way out of it. Wrapping my hand on the coffee mug sitting on the only clear spot on the scattered table, I take a huge swig of the iced coffee inside it, before sighing in content and satisfaction.

Dropping it back down, I continue typing away on my laptop, not stopping until I feel like I have the perfect material left to present.

I've been on this for hours with no prevail. I've printed out my presentation countless of times, only for me to throw it away in the trash can. Pushing back my chair, I stare at the now overflowing bin, filled with nothing but crumbled up pieces of paper.

Letting out a huff, I dip my head down into my hands—that were set firmly on my lap—and run it down my face. Regaining back my posture, I bring myself back to my desk and start rewriting my debate.

I so happened to be one of the four people chosen to represent our beloved Brickwood High, in the interschool debate, not too long ago. It did make perfect sense why I was one of the chosen ones. After all, I am the captain of Brickwood High debate team.

But as the days draw near, the gnawing sensation of failing, is always set at the back of mind. It's always there and makes me feel guilty any time I don't dedicate myself to it. And it's only made worse by the history of the two schools' rivalry. 

If we come back home losers, we're ridiculed; each and every single one of us. No matter the status, no matter the fame. No one will let us forget that wretched day. 

But if we come back home winners, we're praised. They'll pat us on the back and sing praises to our names, regardless of if your liked or not. Anything to rub it in Hamilton High's face, that we, students of Brickwood High, are better than them.

So, I've been proof reading, studying, memorizing, day in day out, not a word will be left on that paper that will not be already engraved in my mind.

Nevertheless, I've somehow gotten it into my head that my work isn't good enough. That I need to do better; I need to work harder. That if everything else fails, let me be the saving grace.

Because, at the end of the day, it'll all be my fault, if we lose. And that thought alone petrifies me; I hate losing. Especially to that god awful school. Hence the reason why, for the past week, I've been spending all my time redoing my work.

I've already notified Miss. Amelia about the changes I'm making to my argument, and she agreed to it only on the condition that I show her the fully rewritten script a week before the competition.

There's two weeks left before the event. I'm fucking panicking.

Removing my hands from the keyboard, I rest my elbows on the table before taking both my hands and rubbing it on the side of my temples.