“Pens down, time is up. The English exam is now over,” Ms. Pomelo announced, her voice cutting through the tense silence that had hung in the room for hours. “Pens down, thank you!” 

John’s hand jerked open as if startled by her words, and his pen clattered onto the desk. He flexed his fingers, red and sore from three hours of relentless writing. His palm hovered over the pages filled with words he could barely recall. 

It wasn’t just the end of an exam. It was the end of high school. 

He looked around at his classmates, watching as they stirred slowly to life. Some exchanged glances, a silent chorus of relief, frustration, or disbelief. John rose from his seat, the plastic chair scraping awkwardly against the carpet. As he gathered his belongings, he caught Ms. Pomelo’s sharp eyes. 

“John, how do you feel?” she asked. 

“No surprises,” he replied. 

“Don’t be too confident,” she warned, her tone clipped but not unkind. “It means you probably missed something.” 

He nodded stiffly, unsure if her words were a challenge or a dig. Ms. Pomelo always had a knack for leaving him uneasy, as though resting too easily wasn’t allowed in her presence. 

The hallway outside the library was alive with chatter and the shuffle of footsteps. Students bemoaned their effort or cheered their freedom, their energy spilling out like steam from a pressure cooker. John threaded through the crowd without stopping, avoiding eye contact. 

The school gates loomed ahead. 

For years, John had dreamed of this moment—the day he’d take his final steps away from the classroom, free from its suffocating monotony. He imagined music swelling, his name etched in invisible fireworks. But now, as he crossed the threshold, there was no parade. The sky was overcast, the air cool. It was just another day. 

Each step felt strangely hollow. His brain understood the reality, but his heart clung to a fantasy where endings came with grandeur. The gap between those expectations and reality left a familiar ache, a sense of longing that often tugged at the corners of his life. He walked the familiar streets in silence, letting his mind wander. 

The walk home brought back fragments of the past, clear and vivid. In Year 7, he kept close behind his older brother and his friends, silent and unsure where he fit. By Year 10, the journey became something to endure, with jeers and the occasional piece of fruit thrown his way. By Year 11, the walks were filled with easy laughter shared with friends, the kind that made the school day feel lighter. Each memory came and went, simple but sharp, as familiar as the path under his feet.

He flinched as a bus rushed by, snapping him out of his thoughts. The past receded like a tide, leaving him firmly in the present. 

Before boarding the tram, he made a detour to Royal Chopsticks. The small suburban Chinese takeaway store had become a sanctuary of sorts, its familiar warmth and aroma a comfort after countless school days. 

The shopkeeper, a kind-eyed woman with an ever-present smile, handed him a dim sim without needing to ask. 

“Last day, huh?” she said, her tone gentle. 

“Yeah,” John replied, startled by her perceptiveness. 

“Good luck,” she said softly. 

He hesitated, her words lingering. “Thanks for everything. I’ll be back.” 

The woman smiled, though a faint sadness flickered in her expression. “It’s okay. Good luck,” she said again before turning back to her work. 

As he walked away, the dim sim felt heavier than usual in his hand. It might be his last. The thought unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite explain why. After today, it would no longer be a dim sim that carried him through the grind of school afternoons. It would just be food—ordinary and unmoored from the life he’d known. 

The tram ride home was uneventful, and soon he was unlocking the front door of his house. First the security door, then the heavier wooden one. Even this mundane ritual felt slightly surreal, as though he were walking through a life that wasn’t quite his anymore. 

“Mum?” he called as he stepped inside. 

“How’d you go, John?” came her voice, slightly muffled. She was in the bathroom—he could hear the hiss of hairspray and the clatter of items on the counter. 

“I think I went well. Finished everything and had time to read over my essays.” He moved toward the kitchen, thirst clawing at his throat. 

By the time he reached for his second glass of water, his mother appeared, her shoes clicking softly against the wooden floor. 

“Come here,” she said, hands on her hips. “Give me a kiss.” 

John set the glass down and leaned into the embrace. 

“You’ve done so well this year,” she said, her voice tender. “It’ll all pay off.” 

“I hope so.” 

His gaze drifted to the kitchen wall, the framed family photos blurring as his eyes lost focus. His mother pulled back, her expression already shifting. “I’m heading to Highpoint to pick up a few things. Want to come?” 

“Nah,” John replied. “I think I’ll stay here and clear out my room. It’s a mess after all the study.” 

She frowned. “Are you sure? Maybe we could sell some of those textbooks. Your father and I paid good money for them.” 

“They’re not worth selling,” he said. “They’re changing the curriculum next year anyway.” 

“Bloody crooks,” she muttered, grabbing her keys. “Alright, then. Call if you need anything.” 

John closed his bedroom door and took in the chaos before him. His desk was a shrine to his year-long war with VCE: piles of notes, battered textbooks, and a whiteboard scrawled with equations and timelines. 

His gaze wandered to the posters above his bed—mysteries solved by Kindaichi, the digital dystopia of *The Matrix*. The bookshelf across the room offered a mix of well-worn manga, DVDs, and framed photos. One object stood out: a delicate fan his father’s coworker had gifted him, its intricate design a reminder of Japan. 

John’s relationship with Japan was complicated. The language had been his nemesis through most of high school, a source of frustration and near-failure. Then, one day in Year 10, everything changed. 

That night, he had a dream. He was walking through a vibrant park, its ground carpeted with red and yellow leaves. Beside him, a boy spoke in a voice that felt both familiar and distant. 

“It’s up those stairs,” the boy said, pointing ahead. 

John replied in perfect Japanese, the fluency startling him even in the dream. 

The boy laughed. “It must always be hot in Australia!” 

John smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. They climbed the stairs together, their laughter carrying through the air. Then the light grew brighter, and brighter—until he woke up. 

The next day, he breezed through a listening comprehension test that would have stumped him a week before. His teacher, Takeguchi-sensei, was baffled. “John-san… how?” 

“I don’t know,” John had replied, and it was the truth. 

But the dream lingered. It felt like more than a dream, as though it belonged to a version of his life he hadn’t lived yet. 

John blinked, snapping back to his cluttered room. He opened the window, letting the fresh air sweep through, and set to work clearing out the remnants of his school years.