#2: I am tired.

Even the gleam of a gold medal and the solitude of being the sole scholar could not sate my parents' hunger for more. I am exhausted—goddammit! I am hollowed out. Seventeen hours a day I have spent enslaved to glowing screens and sheets of paper. And the cruelest joke of all? I still feel like a loser, pathetically desperate for a crumb of pride in what they deem "bare minimum."

Ibu, could you not, for a fleeting moment, be proud? How much more brilliance must I bleed before you admit that I am enough? Dammit. I have poured every ounce of my soul into this; I have left eight hundred others in my wake. Am I truly such a failure?

God, if I had the power of creation, I would forge a mathematical formula so complex it could only be solved by a mother who is sincere, a mother who actually loves.

BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE I AM NOT WORTHY ENOUGH FOR JUST A FUCKING "GOOD JOB" FROM THEIR MOUTHS.

Mr. Ashford speaks of pride, showering me with endless praise. But what about you, Ayah? What about you, Ibu? What is missing? Even now, as I stand in this crowded airport, I haven't heard a single word of solace. At the very least, wish me safety, goddammit! You won’t even spare me a glance.

Grandpa, why do I feel like a ghost to them; two people that I love most? How many more trophies must I stack? How much harder must I break myself before they finally see me? Dammit. Damn this fucking family to hell.

July 26th, 2022. 09:10 AM.