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.
It's not just the work. It's everywhere.
I stopped going to alumni gatherings years ago. It's easier not to show up than to watch the looks pass between them — pity, amusement, relief it isn't them. I used to be their pride, the one they pointed to.
Somewhere along the way, I cut myself off. Or maybe the world did it for me.
One by one, I let the group chats go silent. These days, my phone is crammed with delivery apps, and I can't remember the last time my door opened for someone who wasn't bringing food.
That night, as the office emptied and the city lights flickered on below, I stared at my reflection in the darkened window and wonder:
Where did I go wrong? Was it the moment I chose to enroll in a prestigious university? I remember the pressure, the competition, the way my grades slipped — just a little at first. I kept telling myself I'd catch up. But I didn't.
And with each stumble came the laughter, soft at first, then sharper, until I learned it was easier not to fight at all… and somewhere along the way, I became someone I barely recognize.
I think about the girl I used to be — the one who believed she was meant for something more. I have failed her. And maybe I've failed everyone who once believed in me.
Sometimes, I wonder if I could make amends. If there's still time to.
But the truth is, I wouldn't know where to start. I've long since learned that here, I'm not an equal — just an easy distraction on a slow day. My being around gives them something to laugh about, a little sideshow to break up the monotony of the day. Former classmates who now sit in higher positions watch me the way you'd watch a show you've seen before, sharing the same smirks, the same knowing looks.
I'm not here because I'm needed. I'm here because removing me would take more effort than keeping me around. And the worst part?
I stayed. I let it happen.
Tonight is no different. The last few people left the office an hour ago. The floor is silent except for the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the whir of the building's ventilation.
I sit there, glancing back at the desktop's screen. The numbers blur. The words don't matter.
There's no rush to finish — it's not as if this report will change anything. Whether I submit it tonight or tomorrow morning, my position here will stay the same.
I close my eyes and try to picture something else — a life where I didn't fall, where the bridge never broke.
But I can't.
All I can see is the gap beneath my feet, the planks rotted away, and the empty space where my confidence used to be.
Somewhere deep in my chest, a single thought rose like a bitter whisper: If this is all there is, maybe it's better to start over entirely.
I didn't know it yet, but the universe was already listening — setting the first plank of a new bridge beneath my feet.
I just haven't seen it yet.