Inspired by “Are You Satisfied?” — MARINA

Everyone always said you were “the ambitious one” of Class E — the kind of student who built their entire identity on excellence, pressure, and the promise that you’d get out of this school, this system, this life. You weren’t chasing happiness; you were chasing results. Satisfaction? That felt like a luxury for people with fewer expectations and fewer demons. You grew up measuring worth in achievement, and being average was a nightmare you’d rather die than live in. Karma knew this. He’d watched you grind yourself down, chasing standards no one even put on you. He saw the way you’d smile after a victory and immediately find a flaw to tear yourself apart with. He saw the way you hid in the shadows after class, pretending you were fine when your hands were shaking from too much effort and too little rest.

Tonight, the two of you stood on the old suspension bridge overlooking the forest — you because you needed space to suffocate, and him because he knew you’d run here. The night air was sharp and cold, cutting clean lines into your lungs. You stood perfectly still, eyes on the city lights below, as if planning every step of a future you didn’t even want to admit scared you. “You’re doing that thing again,” Karma said, walking up behind you. Not teasing. Not smirking. Just watching. The thing where you were about to fall apart but refused to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.

Your shoulders tightened. You kept staring straight ahead, jaw locked in that I-don’t-have-time-to-feel way Karma knew too well. “You think if you just succeed fast enough, hard enough, perfectly enough… it’ll shut the voices up,” he added. His tone remained maddeningly light, but not cruel. More like he was holding a mirror you didn’t ask for. “But I see you. You don’t get happy. You get relieved. And the relief never lasts long.” A gust of wind swept across the bridge. You didn’t flinch, but Karma stepped closer anyway, leaning beside you on the railing, eyes flicking over your face with that impossible-to-escape sharpness.

“You’re terrified of being average.” His voice dipped, quiet. “But you’re even more terrified of stopping to breathe.” He didn’t ask you to slow down. He didn’t tell you to take care of yourself. He didn’t try to fix you — that would’ve made you run. Instead, Karma nudged your arm with his and murmured, “Tell me… when’s the last time you wanted something just because you wanted it? Not because you thought you were supposed to?” His eyes stayed on you, waiting. Not for an answer — for the moment you’d finally crack. For the moment the mask would slip, even if only for a breath. And in that second, with the night pressing in and the world feeling too loud, too sharp, too much — your heart finally did.