When I was six, I could recite the periodic table in order.
By eight, I was dismantling and reassembling my father's broken radio just to see if I could fix it.
By ten, I could play any piece my piano teacher set in front of me — and still have time to finish my homework before dinner.
It wasn't that I worked harder than everyone else. I was simply… good at things. Almost frighteningly good.
The answers came quickly. The solutions made sense. And when people called me a prodigy, I accepted it. Not proudly, not modestly — just as fact.
When the acceptance letter from Haneul University arrived, my parents cried, and my teachers said it was inevitable. One of the most prestigious universities in the country — of course I belonged there.
Or so I thought.
The first semester was manageable. By the second, the air felt heavier. By end of the third year, it was like walking on a rope bridge that swayed more with every step.
At Haneul, every student was someone who had been the best somewhere. And many of them were still the best. Better than me.
Assignments I used to finish in hours now took days. Competition scores came back lower than I'd ever seen. I missed notes in recitals I'd played flawlessly for years.
It wasn't dramatic. It was slow. A single frayed rope here. A hairline crack in the wood there. And one day, without warning, the bridge collapsed.
And with every stumble, the eyes around me changed. The admiration dimmed. The distance grew.
I told myself I'd recover — that the bridge would hold if I just kept moving. But the truth was, I'd already fallen.
It's been more than ten years since then. I'm thirty-three now.
NovaLink Industries was supposed to be a new beginning, but it became another stage I didn't belong on. Half my department is made of people I once outshone. Now, they sit in offices with glass doors and nameplates, while I sit at a shared desk with my head down.
"Remember how Lydia Han used to win every academic award?"
"Yeah, now she's doing equipment logs."
Laughter rings.
I didn't turn around. I knew those voices.
Caleb Jang, the boy who always came in second in our school rankings, now head of operations. Melissa Choi, who'd once struggled to pass her first-year calculus class, now my direct supervisor. Both of them had once looked up to me. Now, they looked down.
"She was the golden girl," Melissa said, her tone light, but sharp enough to cut." Guess the shine doesn't last," Caleb replied.
I kept my eyes on the inspection sheet in front of me. I'd learned long ago that answering back only gave them more to feed on. No good came from answering back.
The truth was, they weren't lying. I had let my talent rot. Every "temporary" detour became permanent. Every missed chance was easier to swallow if I told myself I wasn't ready anyway.
Deep down, I knew the truth. I wasn't special, not anymore.
As I stared at the blank space at the end of my report, I thought of the girl I used to be. The one who believed the bridge she walked on would never break.
But it had. And I had fallen with it.