Chapter Twenty-One: The Ledger's Toll
The envelope felt heavy in her hands, a weight far exceeding the few sheets of paper inside. Amaya sat on the edge of her bed, the morning sun feeling accusatory rather than warm. She already knew, with a sick, cold certainty, what the numbers would say. The science columns were a parade of triumphant nines. Biology: 92%. Chemistry: 91%. Physics: 89%. Even Zoology, the nemesis of earthworms: 90%.
A vindication of every late night, every grueling session at the Rowon kitchen table, every piece of unsolicited, hyper-specific advice. Proof she could meet the standard, his standard.
Her finger trembled as it traced down to the final line.
English Literature: 71%.
Not a failure by any normal measure. But in the brutal, competitive calculus of university admissions, it was a death knell. The aggregate was strong, but not strong enough. Not for the program she'd dreamed of, the one she'd secretly chosen because it felt like a bridge between his world of hard science and her world of tangled, human hearts.
Psychiatry.
The word blurred on the page as hot tears welled and spilled over. A harsh, gasping sob broke from her chest. It wasn't just a subject. It was a future she'd painted in her mind with meticulous, hopeful strokes. She would understand the mechanics of the mind, the chemistry of emotion. She could meet him in his world, not as a floundering student, but as a colleague in a related, respected field. She would have a language he understood to talk about the very things he seemed to lock away.
Now, that bridge was washed out. The 71% was the flood that had taken it.
Her mother found her there some time later, curled around the results sheet as if it were a wound.
"Oh, darling," her mother murmured, sitting beside her and stroking her hair. "Ninety percent averages! That's extraordinary! We're so proud!"
"It's not enough," Amaya choked out, the words raw. "Not for Psychiatry. The cutoff… I missed it by a few points. Because of English."
Her mother's hand stilled. "Oh, Amaya. I'm so sorry. But look at these marks! You have so many options. What about general medicine? Or biomedical science?"
Amaya shook her head, the movement aching. "I don't want to just treat bodies. I wanted…" To understand the mind like I'm trying to understand his. "…I wanted to treat minds."
There was a long silence, filled only with her hiccupping breaths. "There is another path," her mother said carefully. "If the mind is what calls you. You have the marks for an excellent Psychology program. It's a different route, a different kind of study, but it still leads to helping people, to understanding."
Psychology. The arts-side cousin of psychiatry. No medical degree. No white coat in a hospital like his. No shared language of prescriptions and diagnostics. It felt like a consolation prize, a path for those who couldn't cut the harder science. A path for daydreamers who flunked their English exams because they were too busy heartbroken over a boy who wasn't theirs.
The thought was a fresh wave of agony. Her failure was now inextricably linked to him. She had seen him with her, and her world had fractured, and that fracture had a precise score: 71%.
"It's not the same," Amaya whispered.
"No," her mother agreed softly. "It's not. But it is your path. And you're allowed to be brilliant on it."
The next few days were a haze of forced smiles and hollow congratulations. Liam called from abroad, his voice tinny over the bad connection. "Nineties?! My genius sister! Who cares about some stuffy poem analysis?"
"I do," she said, unable to muster any enthusiasm.
He heard it. The line crackled with his sigh. "This is about the coffee shop, isn't it?"
She didn't deny it. She'd spilled the whole story in a late-night, tear-filled text barrage.
"Amaya, listen to me. You can't let some random coffee date—which, for all you know, was a study session with a classmate who has a boyfriend—derail your entire future. Your future is yours. It's not a thing you build to impress someone, even someone as annoyingly impressive as Aris."
But it was too late. The two heartbreaks had fused—the loss of the future she wanted, and the shattering of the fantasy she'd clung to. The locket felt like a chain. She took it off.
She submitted her acceptance to the Psychology program at a good university, the paperwork feeling like a surrender. She avoided the Rowon house. The sight of it, the thought of him moving through his successful, on-track life while hers had been forcibly rerouted, was a physical pain.
She was in the backyard one afternoon, listlessly trying to read a novel she couldn't focus on, when the gate clicked.
He stood there, still in his scrubs from a shift, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. The sight of him sent a jolt through her system—anger, humiliation, and a deep, pathetic ache.
"Amaya."
She didn't answer, just stared at him.
"Your mother told me about your results. Your science scores are exceptional." His voice was its usual calm, clinical baritone.
"Exceptional but not enough," she said flatly, not looking at him.
"I heard you chose Psychology."
"What else was I supposed to choose?" The bitterness leaked out. "It was that or give up entirely. Apparently, I'm only good for the soft sciences."
He flinched, almost imperceptibly. "That is a false dichotomy, and an illogical conclusion. Psychology is a rigorous discipline. The mind is the most complex system we study."
"Spare me the lecture," she snapped, surprising herself with her own vehemence. She stood up, facing him. "You got everything you wanted, didn't you? Your perfect scores, your perfect path to surgeon. And I… I saw something I shouldn't have, and I fell apart, and now I'm on the B-track." The tears were back, hot and shameful. "Was she your study partner? Your girlfriend? Just tell me, so I can stop feeling so stupid."
Aris went very still. His gaze intensified, searching her face. "Her name is Dr. Anya Sharma. She is a second-year resident in cardiothoracic surgery. We were discussing a research paper. That is all."
The clarification, delivered with such sterile precision, should have helped. It didn't. It just highlighted the chasm. He was discussing research with residents. She was crying in her backyard over a literature grade.
"It doesn't matter," Amaya said, wiping her cheeks roughly. "It wouldn't have mattered anyway. You made it perfectly clear what you think of me a long time ago. I was just too delusional to listen."
She saw the memory flash in his eyes—the runaway bride on his porch, the cruel dismissal. His jaw tightened. "Amaya—"
"Don't," she cut him off, her voice trembling with finality. "Just don't. You were my tutor. Thank you for your help. It got me a 90 in zoology. But it's over now."
She turned and walked back into the house, leaving him standing alone by the gate. She didn't look back. The fantasy was over. The observation log was closed. All that remained was the ledger of her real life, and its first, stark entry was a 71% that had changed everything. The path ahead was different, lonelier, and hers alone to walk. And the boy next door was finally, truly, left behind.