





I often daydream about how wonderful it would be to have plenty of money, to live without wearing myself out at an exhausting eight-hour job or in a grueling university where you’re lucky to get three carefree days in half a year. I’ve been studying for so long. One of the top schools in the country, the best class, one difficult degree already finished, another in progress. All of this, just so I can live in peace in my tiny hometown, in the home I love so dearly.
I come from a family of doctors, but I never wanted to be one. I’m so lazy that, really, I never wanted to be anything. Biology, at least, seemed interesting. In my town, there’s a university, and I’d hoped to become a researcher there, to join a department. But reality hit me hard—small towns like mine are so steeped in corruption that no matter how hard you work, you don’t earn a thing, and you’re unlikely to rise beyond a junior researcher.
So, at 24, I enrolled in medical school in the capital, four hours from home. And I’m exhausted. Taking academic leave threw me off track entirely. I’m haunted by the thought that I didn’t take the leave because I was sick but because I’m just not capable enough, that I failed. I’m afraid it will all happen again next year. I’m drained, like an empty shell.