Walking three floors just to find one open desk.
WALKING THREE FLOORS JUST TO FIND ONE OPEN DESK.
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That familiar climb, floor after floor, peering through windows, desperately scanning for that elusive empty chair. We’ve all been there. The library, our second home, a sanctuary of silent ambition and sometimes, quiet despair. Remember the meticulousness? The perfectly color-coded notes, each highlighter shade assigned a specific weight, a promise of mastery. We’d spend hours perfecting them, convinced the aesthetic would somehow embed the knowledge deeper. And then, there were the nights. The long, stretching nights where the hum of the air conditioning was the only sound accompanying your racing thoughts. The hushed sniffles in a secluded corner, the tears blurring the very words you were trying to absorb. That moment, head in hands, overwhelmed by the sheer volume and pressure, yet knowing, somehow, you had to keep going. It wasn’t just about the grades; it was about survival, about proving to yourself you could navigate this intense, unique world. That shared understanding, the unspoken bond forged in those very stacks, is what truly connects us. It wasn’t just studying; it was living, breathing, and sometimes, barely holding on. But we did, didn’t we?