“Congratulations” wasn’t the first word.

It was a small envelope.

My hands shook and then my heart sank.

It was a no.

It is a no.

“We cannot offer your admission.”

They used words like “regret” and “sorry” and “loss.”

Those are my words to use.

Not theirs.

“We are confident you will accomplish great things.”

Just not here.

“You have honored use with your interest.”

But you’re not good enough.

“Best wishes.”

Sincerely, not your future.

My father will be devastated.

My mother will console me.

My brother won’t really care.

And my friends will say things like,

“It’s okay. You still have other options.”

They really know how to drench the words in sugar.

But the paper is still bitter.

And the envelope sour.

My friend got in.

She’s better, I guess.

I want to run through the doors and scream,

“I work so hard! I do so much!

I push myself until I break, and then I push harder!

Why don’t you want me?

Why am I not good enough?”

But I know how they’d reply:

“I’m sorry, but…”

But the rest doesn’t matter.

Because I still didn’t get in.

And it would have ruined my life.

It would have destroyed me.

If I had actually wanted to go.