The water was too hot.
She didn't care. She
let it run over her
scalp, down her back, a
heavy, warm curtain
between her and the
apartment's quiet hum.
The exam was over. The
results were sent. She
had done everything she
could do. The pressure
in her chest, the one
that had lived there for
weeks, loosened its
grip. She pressed her
forehead to the shower
wall.
The soap smelled like
clean linen. She breathed
it in.
It's over.
She turned off the
water. The silence rang.
She stood in the steam,
dripping, staring at the
dark tile. The relief
was not a cheer. It was
a letting go, a slow
exhale. She reached for
the towel, and her hand
was steady.