The Truth About Love

chapter thirteen

My limited knowledge of human facial expressions suggests that Mr Stevens is far from impressed by my personal statement. Studying his face is like watching a tableau of events: initial excitement slowly morphs into shock, followed by a look of horror so profound that one might even conclude that I'd just handed him a report foretelling the series of events that will occur moments before his death.

When his eyes reach the bottom of the page they stay there. He blinks and he blinks so much and so rapidly that I can't gauge whether he's fighting back tears, is experiencing the preliminary symptoms of a cataract, has just seen his late grandmother's spirit, or all of the above. What I do know for certain, however, is that he's not about to shower me with praises.

I'm relieved when he finally stops blinking, mainly because it means I won't have to call someone in for help due to him having a suspected seizure but also because I want him to put me out of my misery once and for all.

Rubbing his chin, he looks at me. "Asha, I don't know what to say," he begins.

He stands up from behind his desk, places the piece of paper on the mahogany table, and looks out of the window pensively as if he'd be able to find the words he's looking for hidden in a nearby tree or on a message created by an aircraft in the sky.

Still gazing outside, he continues, "your extracurriculars, your further reading... it's all very impressive and arguably unique too but there's something slightly off when it comes to the overall execution of the statement. It's lacking something. It's fantastic that you're a black belt in taekwondo and that you can speak seven different languages including Rotokas, the native language of the island of Bougainville, but how do these things contribute towards your strong desire to study medicine?"

My fears have come true. I'd hoped that bombarding my statement with strange (but legitimate) extracurricular activities would be enough to conceal the monotonous and lackluster tone it undeniably has but alas, it clearly isn't.

When he finally averts his fixed gazed on the mulberry tree planted by the lawn in front of the chapel, he reaches for the tissue box on his desk. He stops midway when he sees the lack of tears or even disappointment in my eyes.

"Mr Stevens, I'm sorry if you're disappointed in me," I say solemnly.

"I don't think disappointed is the right word- I just expected something a bit more passionate from you given your strong commitment to this career path since you first joined Leighton." He sits back on his leather chair and starts typing.

Passionate. There's that word. How could I possibly make it remotely passionate when passion is the one thing I don't have? I suppose I could have tried to fake it a bit more, but I've never been any good at pretending- whether that be in a theatrical sense or in a real-world sense.

He stops typing and readjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I think you're in luck because Oxford looks almost exclusively at your GCSE performance and BMAT score when shortlisting for interviews- luckily for you, your straight A* grades put you in a strong position," he clears his throat, "and presumably you'll perform well in the entrance exam."

"I'll try my best," I say. And I mean it too. I'll have to it's my only hope.

"I'm sure you'll do well," he glances at the clock, "and as you've handed it in an hour before the submission deadline we'll have to leave it as it is."

The first time in my life I've ever left something at the last hour. Literally.

"Thank you." I make my way to the door hurriedly as I'm already five minutes late to the PR meeting.