My palms’ sweat drenched the front pocket of my jacket. My stomach churned and vomit stuck like duct tape to my throat. This would make me or break me. Steps grew increasingly fast until I reached the large crowd of people surrounding the bulletin board outside of the auditorium. Negative and positive thoughts drowned my mind in such an oxymoron anxiety. I watched as the crowd began to sparse out. The departing shed tears of joy and disappointment but the salty mixture did not leave my eyes. Not yet. When I was close enough to read the posted names, I began at the bottom figuring that’s all I was capable of receiving. No luck. My eyes curiously drifted upward, doubtingly skimming the mounds of words and letters. A recognizable name caught my eye at the very top of the list. “Fallon James—Roxy Hart”. After staring at the familiar name, my mind sparked and I realized that the name was that of my own. Two questions arose—Was I dreaming? And if not, could I really do this?