I was already nervous enough to look at the mails on the table. That size of envelope – uh-oh…
It should be too big for a piece of paper reporting my failure.
Putting aside the big one, I pretended to be busy looking through the other newsletters, finding them unimportant as usual.
Only a few hours earlier, I had this conversation with my mom:
E: “Mom, it’s already November, which means even if I ever be accepted, I don’t have enough time to get prepared.”
M: “What preparation do you need?”
E: “Well… I have to look for a place to live, get a visa, and buy some everyday commodities and stuff, you know.”
M: “And how much time you need for that? Those things can be done in just a day or two.”
E: “Um, I mean, I am not just ready. Maybe I should take time and begin next fall, instead of January.”
M: “I don’t see your point.”
E: “I don’t see my point either. I mean, I may not be accepted at all, and I am kind of hoping so. I know this sounds strange, but if I fail, I am pretty sure I will feel… um, relieved.”
Then I got the letter of “Congrats.” Very unfortunately.