I can't leave my mom — not in this kind of life.
That's the first thought that hits me when the Crown Ridge University portal finishes loading.
The screen flickers like it's unsure. My laptop makes that low grinding noise it does when it's thinking too hard — like it resents being asked to process something this expensive.
Then the word appears.
Congratulations.
I stared at it.
And then I started laughing.
Not because it's funny.
Because it's stupid.
Because what was I thinking?
Crown Ridge.
Do you know how much Crown Ridge costs?
I click the tuition tab before I can stop myself.
The number loads.
I physically recoil.
It's not even a number. It's a threat. It's a joke. It's an amount of money that doesn't exist in my world unless it's attached to the words "debt for life."
What was I thinking?
What kind of delusional, arrogant, idiotic version of myself thought, Yeah, apply there. Why not?
I look around the kitchen like it might answer me.
The sink drips every twelve seconds. I know because I've counted. The fridge hums like it's threatening to quit. The linoleum near the stove is peeling up at the edges. The ceiling has that faint water stain shaped like something almost beautiful if you don't look too closely.
This is where I live.
This is what I come from.
And I thought I could just… apply to Crown Ridge?
I press my fingers into my eyes until I see white spots.
Girls who go to Crown Ridge don't Google "how to remove late fee from electricity bill." They don't know exactly how much overdraft protection costs because they've never needed it. They don't calculate whether they can afford both shampoo and conditioner in the same week.
They don't cut their own hair at midnight in the bathroom because a salon visit is the same price as groceries.
I drag my hand through my short, uneven hair and feel the heat crawl up my neck.
I did this.
I filled out the application.
I wrote the essay.
I answered the questions about "leadership" and "aspiration" like I had any right to those words.
And now here it is.
Congratulations.
Like I earned something.
Like earning matters when you can't pay for it.
My chest tightens so hard it feels like I swallowed a rock.
Even if I got in, I can't afford tuition.
Even if I somehow got tuition covered, there's housing.
Even if housing magically works out, there are books.
Clothes.
Meal plans.
Fees.
Fees for existing.
Fees for breathing.
Fees for daring to step into a building built for people richer than you.
I slam the laptop shut.
The sound cracks through the kitchen like a gunshot.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Except it doesn't work.
The word is burned behind my eyelids.
Congratulations.
It feels like mockery now.
The front door sticks before it opens — it always does — and my heart jumps.
"Evie?" Mom calls.
I wipe my face fast, furious at myself for crying over something I should've known better than to want.
"Yeah."
She walks in looking smaller than she did this morning. Her shoulders sag like the world leaned on them too hard. There's a greased stain on her sleeve. Her hands are red from dishwater and chemicals that probably shouldn't touch skin that long.
"You eat?" she asks.
"Yeah." Lie.
She looks at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle.
"Everything okay?"
The laptop sits on the table between us.
Heavy.
Accusing.
I swallow.
"I'm fine."
She moves to the sink. Turns on the water. Starts scrubbing dishes that were already clean.
"You're going to have options one day," she says quietly.
The words slice straight through me.
Options.
Like I'm not staring at a number I will never be able to pay.
"You won't be stuck like I was."
Stuck.
The rage hits before the guilt does.
Because she says it like it's inevitable. Like this is just how life works for people like us.
You work.
You struggle.
You survive.
You don't dream too loudly.
And I'm so angry I can barely breathe.
Angry at the bills.
Angry at the tuition number.
Angry at myself for even applying.
Angry at the universe for letting me get in.
Why would they accept someone who can't afford to walk through the door?
Why give me hope if it's just another thing I can't have?
I almost told her.
I almost say, I got into Crown Ridge.
But what's the point?
So, she can look at the tuition page too?
So, can she apologize for not having enough?
So, can she start calculating how many extra shifts she'd need to die a little faster?
No.
I won't do that to her.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say instead.
My voice cracks.
She pauses.
Just for a second.
Relief floods her shoulders like she was bracing for something worse.
And that's what kills me.
Because she was afraid, I would leave.
And part of me wants to.
Later, in my room, I open the laptop again.
Because I can't help myself.
Congratulations.
Still there.
I click through the financial pages again like I'm punishing myself.
The number doesn't shrink.
It doesn't matter that I deserve it.
It doesn't matter that I worked for it.
It just sits there.
Cold.
Unreachable.
What was I thinking?
Who did I think I was?
For a few weeks — while I was writing that essay — I let myself pretend I wasn't just the girl from this apartment. I let myself imagine dorm rooms and libraries and walking across a campus where no one knows how close you are to being broke.
And now I feel stupid forever thinking I could outrun math.
I closed the laptop again.
But this time, I don't cry.
I stare at the ceiling and let the anger sit in my chest like something alive.
This kind of life.
This is what we get.
Work until you're exhausted.
Dream small.
Stay grateful.
And I hate it.
I hate that wanting more feels selfish.
I hate that getting in isn't enough.
I hate that money decides who gets to step forward.
And under all of that —
Under the anger.
Under the humiliation.
Under the math —
There's still that whisper.
Love me.
Choose me.
Let me out.
And I don't know if I'm angry at school.
Or at myself.
Or at the world that made me believe I could almost have something.