The first day after Career Week felt oddly anticlimactic. The stream of activities, the workshops, the quiet reflections—it had all wrapped up into a blur of inspiration. Yet when Monday morning came, school fell back into its familiar rhythm. Math assignments. Science reports. Projects. But for me, something was different. I felt different.
It was in the way I picked up my pen during class, how I engaged in group discussions, how I walked the halls—not as someone looking for validation but as someone beginning to understand her own direction. It was subtle, yes. But it was there.
I found myself back under the old acacia tree during lunch, this time sketching ideas in the corner of my journal. The contest flyer from the writing workshop peeked out from one of the pages. I hadn't told anyone I was planning to enter—not even Coleen. It felt… sacred somehow. Like this was something I needed to do for myself.
A leaf floated down and landed on the open page of my journal.
"You and this tree," Coleen said, suddenly appearing beside me with her lunchbox. "Is this your secret lair or something?"
I laughed, brushing the leaf aside. "Maybe. It's quiet. Peaceful."
She sat beside me, unwrapping a sandwich. "So... you gonna enter that writing contest?"
I blinked. "How did you—?"
She grinned. "Please. You've been carrying that flyer around like it's a treasure map. Of course I noticed."
Caught. I sighed, smiling. "I want to. I'm just... nervous. What if I'm not good enough?"
Coleen nudged me with her elbow. "That's what you told me about photography, remember? And look where I am now. I applied to be the photojournalist for our school paper. Interview's tomorrow."
"That's amazing!"
"You inspired me," she said simply. "So now it's your turn."
Her words warmed me in a way I hadn't expected. I tucked the flyer back into my journal, this time more purposefully. "Okay. I'll do it."
By midweek, I had started drafting my piece—a story about choices, second chances, and the quiet bravery of becoming. It wasn't autobiographical, not exactly, but the emotions behind it were real. I poured every lesson, every regret, every flicker of hope into it. I lost track of time as I wrote, the words flowing like a conversation with my past self.
At night, I'd sit by the window with my lamp casting a soft pool of light, editing and refining. Mama peeked in once and smiled. "You're writing again?"
"Yeah," I said, not looking up. "For a contest."
She walked in and sat on the bed. "You've always had a way with words. Even when you were little, you'd write letters to the moon."
I chuckled. "I remember that. I think I actually believed the moon read them."
"Maybe it did," Mama said, brushing my hair back gently. "But now, maybe it's time others read them too."
With my piece finally submitted, a strange kind of calm settled over me—like exhaling after holding my breath for too long.
---
Friday came with unexpected news. I was called to the principal's office during recess. A few heads turned as I stood up, but no one said anything. My heart raced. I hadn't done anything wrong—or had I?
"Carmela," Ms. Beltran greeted me in the hallway. "Come on. You've been requested."
Requested? That sounded ominous.
Inside the office, I found a few other students already seated. And at the front stood a woman in a dark blue blazer, clipboard in hand and a kind smile on her face.
"Good morning," she began. "I'm from the Regional Academic Foundation. We're conducting interviews for the scholarship shortlist. Congratulations on making it this far."
My stomach flipped. An interview? Today?
We were asked to wait in line outside the guidance room. As I sat with my hands clasped tightly, Yvette approached quietly. Her expression was hard to read.
"Hey," she said, sitting beside me.
"Hey."
She exhaled, eyes on the floor. "I was told I didn't make the cut because of my Science grade. I just wanted to say… Congratulations."
Surprised, I looked at her. There was no bitterness in her tone—just honesty. Growth.
"Thank you," I said. "That means a lot. And for what it's worth… I know how hard you work. One grade doesn't define you."
She gave me a small smile. "Good luck in there."
---
The interview itself was brief but intense. Questions about goals, strengths, leadership, setbacks. I answered as truthfully as I could, drawing from memories of both lives. They asked where I saw myself in five years.
"Still growing," I answered. "Hopefully helping others grow too."
The woman in the blazer smiled, jotting something down.
When I finally left the room, I didn't feel drained. I felt… proud.
---
That weekend, I managed to meet up with Raziel after I submitted my piece for the writing contest. We hadn't seen each other in weeks—just exchanged messages. We decided to meet at the small café near his school. It had wooden tables, hand-painted mugs, and the smell of fresh bread.
He was already there when I arrived, flipping through a fantasy novel. He looked up and smiled.
"Hey, superstar."
"Oh please," I rolled my eyes, sitting across from him. "If I hear one more person mention the scholarship list—"
"You'll what? Smack them with your journal?"
I laughed. "Tempting."
We talked for hours—about Career Week, the contest, his robotics project, even the latest anime we both watched. It was easy, comforting. Familiar in a way that felt like home.
"You've changed," he said quietly as we were finishing our drinks.
I tilted my head. "In a good way?"
"In the best way. You're… more sure of yourself."
I thought about that. "I guess I finally realized life isn't about rushing to a finish line. It's about showing up, every day, even when you're unsure."
He nodded slowly. "I'm glad you're showing up."
---
The following Monday, the results of the youth writing contest were posted online. I almost didn't check.
But curiosity got the better of me during lunch. I opened the site on my phone, hands trembling slightly.
Second Place: Carmela E. Valeria – "The Girl and the Sunset."
I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Coleen let out a shriek beside me. "You won?! Wait, second place?! Oh my gosh, Carmela!"
A few other classmates leaned over to see, offering surprised congratulations. My face was warm, but my heart soared.
Later that day, I walked home alone, the sky painted in the hues of a familiar sunset. I looked up and smiled.
In my past life, I had stood in this very spot, convinced I'd missed my chance.
But now, I knew the truth.
Second chances don't always come with fireworks or grand revelations. Sometimes, they arrive quietly—like the wind through acacia leaves, like a name on a list, like a story finally told.
And I wasn't just rewriting my life.
I was finally living it.