Written first as a jumble of words expressing my anxiety regarding volleyball tryouts, then as an actual one-shot. Enjoy.

There's no way you could understand what I'm feeling.

There isn't. If there were, you would've given me an answer by now.

You can't feel what I feel. Can't know what I think, or see inside my head. Otherwise you'd be feeling the same pain I am. Like you're about to throw up or double over, hurting with angst and anxiety. And then you'd begin to wonder, am I not good enough?

You know, at first I thought I was just sore. I know how hard I tried, how tired I was. I thought maybe, if I gave it a few days, the pain would subside. I'd be fine. But I wasn't.

Nerves, I told myself. I'm just worried that I'm not going to like what I hear. Calm down.

Yeah, it wasn't nerves. Or soreness. Though they both contributed. But you know what it was?


I've always been one to excel, understand? I've nearly always had faith in myself, because I knew I could do well. The first time I can remember feeling like I hadn't been good enough, like I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life, was this time last year. The first time I saw you.

Now I know what it feels like to doubt myself. And to be honest, it sucks.

Maybe I'm just not trusting myself, though. Maybe, like last time, somehow, I did make you proud. Maybe all my worrying and stressing is for nothing.

But maybe I can sense that this isn't like last time. How would I know one way or the other? You still haven't called.

Please. Just tell me. Until then I'll be forced to keep doubting myself. Was I not good enough? Should I have tried that extra bit harder? Is there anything more I could've or should've done? I really did try my hardest. You know that, right? I prepared for weeks. All business, no nonsense. Heck, I risked my safety to prove myself to you. I've got the bruises and scratches to show for it. Did you see the fire in my eyes? My thirst, my aching for success? Maybe the rest of them were better than me—okay, we both know most of them were better than me—and much more deserving. They know the drill. They've been doing this sort of thing longer. But I've got something you can't teach, and that's desire. I know how badly I want this. But do you?

I need to trust myself. I really need to assure myself that I succeeded. And at first I did believe that. But as the days pass, and the phone still doesn't ring, I find myself regretting things I did—but I'm not even sure if they were wrong or not. How would I? I'm psyching myself out. I'm making myself sick, waiting for you. I want to throw up, or scream, or cry, or something. I can't even breathe. All I can choke down are ragged gasps that I just cough back out.

Tell me if I'm good enough. Or explain what I did wrong. I just need to hear your voice. You have to know I can't wait any longer before I go insane. This is killing me, this constant worry. Let me know. The only thing that will calm me down is an answer.