The weeks after receiving my matric results felt like limbo. I had passed—I had done it. I had crossed the line that so many fear to even approach. But now what?
I spent my days refreshing emails, checking application portals, hoping for one "yes" that would make everything make sense. I wanted to believe that all my late-night study sessions, all the anxiety, all the self-doubt would be rewarded. But rejection after rejection came in like quiet heartbreaks. The reason was always the same: The course you applied for is full. Try again next year.
Try again next year.
The words rang louder than they should've.
My friends were posting about their registrations, moving into res, buying bedding sets and study supplies. I smiled at their joy, but deep down, I felt like I was standing in the middle of a celebration I wasn't invited to.
Zeon was there, as always, but even he didn't know how to fix this. One night, I sat with my head on his lap while he stroked my hair.
"I didn't expect to feel this lost," I admitted.
"You're not lost," he said. "You're just… rerouting."
"I wanted this so bad. And now I feel like I'm wasting time."
He paused, then said, "What you do with time is what gives it meaning. Wasting it isn't failing—it's giving up. And you haven't given up."
That night, he held me like I was glass. Carefully. Protectively.
---
With no varsity in sight, I threw myself into anything that felt like movement. I started helping my mom more, volunteering at a daycare nearby, and even signed up for a free digital skills course. It wasn't what I dreamed of—but it kept me grounded. I told myself, this is just a detour, not the end.
Zeon, meanwhile, was becoming busier with his work at the driving school. He started talking about long-term plans, like saving to open his own branch one day. We were growing, but in different directions—and I felt it.
We weren't drifting apart, not yet—but there was distance I couldn't name. We'd have conversations that started deep and ended short. Sometimes I'd text and wait hours before getting a reply. Not because he didn't care, but because life was beginning to demand more from us.
One Saturday, as we sat in his backyard eating ice cream, I blurted out, "Are you scared we won't make it?"
He looked up from his cone and said, "Every day. But I choose us anyway. Even when it's hard."
That simple line pulled me back.
---
We started writing our plans in a notebook—things we wanted to do before the year ended. From silly things like going to the zoo, to bigger dreams like starting a business together. We didn't do them all, but writing them down felt like hope. Like possibility.
Even when the world shut doors, we found windows.
I learned that sometimes, dreams don't fall apart—they shift. And love? Real love bends with the weight of reality, but it doesn't break. It becomes the safety net when everything else feels uncertain.
In the quiet of my gap year, I discovered more than just disappointment. I discovered how to rebuild from it. I learned that success isn't always defined by acceptance letters or institutions.
Sometimes, it's defined by showing up. For yourself. For your future. For the person who never stops showing up for you.