Graduation
The boy stepped into a windowless room, its beige walls closing in like a forgotten breath. It was awkwardly shaped, too small for comfort—a room that shouldn’t exist. It's clear why people often ended up here: this space was designed for discomfort and confrontation.
Already in the room, the lawyer fiddled with a chair, nudging it back and forth before finally settling. Her movements were deliberate but unsure, as though even she couldn’t quite find her place in this misshapen room. The boy watched, amused.
"I guess they don't teach spatial reasoning in law school,"
The boy thought. He concluded there was no way that chair was getting to the other side, so he slipped into it without trying.
A few mumbled exchanges followed—
"Ohh, you're just going to sit there…"
"Is that alright?"
"No, no. Even there is fine."
—That kind of thing.
The lawyer spoke first, officially—after the chair scuffle. Her voice was a little shaky at first, unexpectedly. She introduced herself and, in a flustered moment of déjà vu, repeated a detail she'd already mentioned. Just like when a list is too long and you forget the beginning, so the first item becomes the last. This put the boy at ease, though he had been nervous on his way in.
When it was the boy's turn to speak, he forgot to introduce himself, as he often does. Not out of rudeness, but because he'd already forgotten the lawyer's name, even though she started with it. His father interrupted with his name, then gestured toward the boy, an unsubtle demonstration of how it's supposedly done. The boy restarted. This time, he remembered to say his name.
They talked. Details. Procedures. The father received a second call, similar to the first, about a missed payment, a voice sharp with impatience. He excused himself. He'd taken the first one right there at the table.
There was a brief silence. The lawyer, perhaps sensing the tension, offered a polite congratulations.
"On your upcoming graduation."
"At this point,"
the boy muttered,"it feels more like a curse than anything, let alone a celebration."
"Pardon?"
the lawyer asked—she'd clearly heard, but wanted to be sure.
He wasn't surprised. People often accused him—through narrowed eyes or polite smiles—of being too pessimistic.
"Have you ever heard of Pandora's box?"
The lawyer looked uncertain.
"Then what do they teach in law school?" he thought.
"It's a Greek myth," he explained. "Pandora opens a box she's not supposed to, and all the evils of the world—greed, envy, pain, death—spill out. The world gets poisoned. But one thing stays in the box: hope."
He looked up, watching her face for understanding.
"The paradox," he continued, "though it is wildly misunderstood—this interpretation probably included—is whether hope is a blessing or a curse. Some say it keeps us going. Others say it just drags out the suffering. Without hope, maybe there'd be no struggle at all. People would accept things as they are, without any expectations."
The lawyer stayed quiet. Attentive. She didn't interrupt.
"For people like me, graduation is hope. Hope for my family. For my community. For me. It's the idea that I'll build something new. Escape what I was born into. People look at me and think, 'If he can do it, so can my kid.' I've seen it in their eyes. The guys I shared rides with, heading to labor jobs while I went to class. Strangers. Drunk uncles. They all project this hope onto me. And now they want to know: did it work? Did it mean something?"
"Maybe this is what was left in the box: the crushing weight of everyone else's hope."
He paused.
"I didn't even know what to hope for. But now I have this piece of paper. A passport to a place I still haven't been shown how to find."
He looked down.
"What if I fail? What if I can't live up to what they hoped for? What do I say when I end up next to them, doing the same thing they hoped I'd escape?"
"That's what this degree is. Not freedom. Not success. Just... expectation. Everyone's waiting for the magic to happen. I'm waiting for it too. Maybe it comes after the day. I'm still in the same crumpled room I've always hated, waiting to feel like I belong. Like I'm allowed to dream as freely as all the people who do it with ease. But I am still limited."
"My wings are clipped — right there in the job descriptions. 'Must not be this,' 'Must be that.' Just say it: it must not be me."
The lawyer leaned forward. Her eyes were soft, but firm.
"It doesn't take away from the fact that you made it out. You spent four years doing something difficult. And you're graduating."
She took a breath.
"Pardon my bluntness," she continued, "but maybe you're overreacting. Or maybe you've never really allowed yourself to see your struggle. You either downplay it or dramatize it. Either way, it's dishonest. You're stuck in a loop of self-deception."
The boy tensed.
"It isn't about your community, society, or whoever you think you're carrying. They're proud of you. Proud of themselves for being part of your story."
"Yeah, they are," he cut in.
"My mom called this morning. She wanted to let me know that she was proud—something like that. I never listen, because she's always on the brink of crying during these moments. It Makes me feel like I never had a choice. She cries whenever I accomplish anything — like my success confirms how hard it was to get here. God, I hope she doesn't cry at the graduation. Everyone seems to be so proud, so why am I not?"
He leaned in, voice softer now.
"I don't think I had a choice," he said, deciding something mid-sentence. "The second it looked like I might make it out, the path closed behind me. I worked hard, yeah—but it doesn't feel like hard work when you're just trying to survive. Real choice feels like something you choose to risk. I couldn't risk failure. That was never on the table."
He looked at her.
"I like what I do. I'm good at it. But maybe that's because I had to be. Because other dreams were too expensive. Because other dreams couldn't guarantee my exit. Because no one tells you how to dream when your job is to climb."
He swallowed.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'm living my life or just acting out a script someone else finds inspiring."
The lawyer saw her opening and took it.
"This is all about you. And maybe—just maybe—the world isn't some grand metaphor. Maybe you need to stop trying to rewrite it and live in it."
"Live in it?" His voice cracked, raw. "The world wasn't meant for me. Or maybe that's your point. Maybe I should've stayed where I belonged. Done what was expected."
"And what was that?" she asked, interrupting him for the first time.
"You say you had no choice, then tell me you made one. Which is it?"
The boy looked flustered.
"I had no choice... but to make this choice. But it wasn't freedom. It was a calculation. It was survival. I've watched people live my dreams—dreams I never dared to try. I've seen them make beautiful mistakes I couldn't afford."
The lawyer leaned back, clearly sensing the loop and growing tired of it.
"Look, it seems you can't decide whether you want to be special or not," she said quietly. "But I'll tell you a secret: the people who are truly special? They don't try so hard to be."
He didn't respond. Not because he disagreed. But because, for once, he had no defense. She understood. And worse, she had an answer.
He needed time. A long pause ensued.
The lawyer studied him, then sighed. "You're lucky to have the support."
Almost imperceptibly, she added— "Some of us weren't"
She turned sharply, punctuating the moment.
"I am ungrateful," the boy said, rolling his eyes. A sigh, a hollow chuckle—the sound of a vow: to stay ungrateful.
"I feel like the reason others are grateful. I see it in their eyes—a quiet, guilty flicker when I can't accomplish things due to circumstances I never chose. Somehow, they walk away from my limitations feeling enlightened, as if my struggle serves as a moral boost for them. They feel lucky and believe they are better people for witnessing me at my lowest. My pain recalibrates their comfort. They leave with a new perspective, while I am left with the same broken ladder and just a pat on the back for being so inspiring."
The boy laughed—a defiant, disbelieving sound, a touch too defensive. The lawyer let it hang.
The father walked back in, unaware of what had occurred, but he felt the shift in the atmosphere. After two quick, suspicious glances, the conversation returned to formality: schedules, paperwork, and payment. The number was steep.
The father turned red and stumbled on his words. "He's almost 25," he muttered, "and I still have to pay for everything."
The boy looked up and smiled, catching the lawyer's eye. In that shared glance, the final volley of their unspoken argument played out. This time, silently. He never said another word in that room.
Instead, he chose to live in the room. Slowly, he studied its awkward corners—the abrupt angles, the gentle curves, the hairline cracks, and the shifting shades of beige. As he explored, the room became less awkward, its strangeness softened by familiarity.
The father, noticing his son had drifted into a familiar daydream, offered a quiet remark—half apology, half observation: "He doesn't talk much."
"Well, he was speaking to me," the lawyer replied.
The father chuckled lightly. Not dismissive—just uncertain. He took it as politeness. But she meant it. That was the end of both their conversations. A few minutes later, the boy stood, opened the door, and walked out.