I thought it would feel louder—
the moment the number came.
Like a drumbeat,
a firework,
something to match the storm.
The storm that trailed behind me,
watched me for three weeks straight.
The storm that tore at my sanity
each time I circled the wrong answer.
No one would have guessed
how much one question—
one point—
held up my sense of worth.
I measured myself
by the weight of a scantron bubble,
by the slope of a graph,
by the breath I held
every time I doubted myself
more than the numbers.
But the only number that seemed to matter
was the one on the screen.
There it was:
a perfect 100,
as if the world had looped
back into place.
Now it’s just a number—
a clean collection of lines.
Sure, I’m proud.
But I’m exhausted too.
My hands ache.
My head pounds
from carrying so much fear.
I feel sorry
for the version of me
who didn’t believe she’d be okay.
She didn’t need to break herself
to get here.
But still,
she did.
It didn’t even matter.I gave everything
to a moment
that passed
in silence.
Author’s Note:
This poem came from the quiet crash after an achievement I thought would fix everything. It’s about tying your worth to a number, chasing perfection until it drains the joy from the outcome. I wanted to capture the emotional aftermath, all involving the silence, the exhaustion, and the bittersweet realization that the victory didn’t undo the stress it took to reach it.
Sabrina Nurullaeva | 15 | Brooklyn, NY | @sabrinaaa_n32 on Instagram
