The Scholarship

The cursor blinked on the screen, a silent reminder of time slipping away. Michael’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly as he stared at the lines of code. The program should have been the crown jewel of his semester—a software tool designed to optimize the efficiency of solar panel arrays. The idea had come to him during a summer internship, where he’d seen firsthand the inefficiencies in energy distribution.

He ran the program again, but the output was the same: nonsense. The angles were off, the energy distribution was a disaster, and then the interface crashed like a cruel joke. He could see the sun rising outside his window, casting an orange glow across his cluttered room. His project was due tomorrow, and he was nowhere near where he needed to be. He ran the code again, praying for a different result, but the output was the same: nonsensical angles, power surges that could fry the equipment, and crashes that wiped out hours of work. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the worn linoleum floor, and buried his face in his hands. How had it all gone so wrong?

His professor had praised his concept during the initial proposal. “This could be groundbreaking,” he had said, his eyes gleaming with the possibilities. Michael had left that meeting on a high, his mind buzzing with excitement. But now, as the deadline loomed closer, that excitement had turned to dread. Every line of code felt like a brick in the wall of his failure, each error message another blow to his confidence.

Michael stood up, the chair creaking in protest, and began pacing his room. He stepped over crumpled papers and empty coffee cups, the floor a minefield of his frustration. His gaze landed on the dirty laundry piled in the corner, clothes he hadn’t touched in days. The room smelled of stale sweat and something sour, a testament to how long he had been holed up in here. His phone buzzed on the desk, a message from David, no doubt, or another reminder of the study group he hadn’t attended in weeks. He ignored it, focusing instead on the code still blinking on his screen.

Michael dropped back into his chair, running his hands through his hair. He knew he was stuck, but the thought of asking for help, of admitting that he couldn’t do it on his own, felt like admitting defeat. And defeat wasn’t an option.

He stared at the code, frustration boiling over, and slammed his fist on the desk. The papers fluttered to the floor, joining the mess already there.

The isolation had been creeping up on him for weeks. At first, it was just skipping a night out with friends to finish an assignment, then a missed study group because he didn’t feel prepared. But now, days had gone by without him leaving the room. His phone buzzed with messages—concerned texts from friends, reminders about assignments, invitations to study sessions—but he ignored them all.

He looked back at the screen again. The code was a labyrinth of failed logic, broken algorithms, and bugs that seemed to multiply with every attempt to fix them.

His mind flashed back to a conversation he had overheard between two professors in the hallway. They were discussing the job market for engineers, how competitive it had become, how only the top graduates were getting hired. One of them had mentioned a former student—brilliant but burned out—who had ended up working in retail, unable to secure a job in engineering after graduation.

The fear had taken root then, a seed that grew with each small failure. It wasn’t just about disappointing his family anymore; it was about his entire future slipping through his fingers. The pressure had always driven him, pushed him to excel, but now it was crushing him.

A knock on the door startled him, and he quickly slammed the lid of his laptop shut, as if trying to hide the evidence of his unraveling.

“Michael, you in there?” It was David, the only person he hadn’t completely shut out. But even with David, he had been distant, avoiding eye contact, keeping conversations short.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Michael called out, his voice barely above a whisper.

David opened the door and stepped inside, taking in the state of the room with a concerned look. He didn’t say anything about the mess, but Michael could see the worry in his eyes.

“Just wanted to check on you,” David said, leaning against the wall. “You’ve been holed up in here for days. We’re grabbing some food at the student center. You should come.”

Michael shook his head. “I can’t. I have to finish this.”

David sighed, his eyes softening. “You don’t look like you’re finishing anything. You look like you’re killing yourself.”

Michael didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. He knew David was right, but the thought of taking a break, of leaving the room, felt impossible.

“Listen,” David continued, his tone firm but kind, “I get it. You’re under a lot of pressure, but this isn’t healthy. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I’ll be fine,” Michael muttered unconvincingly.

David didn’t push further. He knew better. “All right, man. But if you need anything, just let me know.”

As David left, closing the door quietly behind him, Michael felt the weight of his isolation settle back over him. He was alone again, with only his thoughts and the looming deadline for company.

Later, the clock on his nightstand blinked 2:37 AM in bold red digits. The night was eerily quiet, broken only by the occasional hum of the air conditioning unit and the distant hoot of an owl. Michael sat hunched over his desk, eyes burning from hours of staring at the screen, but the code remained a tangled mess.

Soon, the first light of dawn was creeping into the room when he felt it—the familiar tightness in his chest, the shallow breaths that wouldn’t come fast enough.

Michael bolted out of the room, not bothering to grab his phone or wallet, and ran down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the silent dormitory. The cool morning air hit him like a wave as he burst out of the building and into the quiet campus. He didn’t stop running until he reached the edge of the quad, where he collapsed onto a bench, gasping for breath.

His vision blurred as tears welled up, blinding him to the world around him.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, the cold metal of the bench biting through his thin jacket, but by the time the sun had fully risen, he felt numb. The panic had subsided, leaving behind a hollow emptiness.

“Michael?”

The voice cut through his thoughts, gentle but firm. He looked up to see Claire standing a few feet away, her dark curls catching the light. Dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, as she stood there with a cup of coffee in her hand, he realized he hadn’t seen her since the party a month ago, where she had been surrounded by friends, laughing and carefree. Now, her expression was serious, her eyes filled with concern.

“I thought that was you,” she said, taking a cautious step closer. “Are you okay?”

Michael shook his head, unable to find the words. He wasn’t okay—he was far from it. But how could he explain that to someone who probably had her life together, who wasn’t drowning in the pressure like he was?

“Mind if I sit?” Claire asked, her tone gentle.

He nodded, and she sat beside him, leaving a respectful distance between them. The bench creaked under their weight, the sound loud in the stillness of the morning.

“I’m not going to pry,” Claire said, her voice soft. “But you look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“What are you doing out here so early?” Michael asked, more to deflect attention from himself than out of genuine curiosity.

Claire shrugged. “Just heading back to the library. I’ve got a thesis to finish, and I’m on a tight deadline.”

Michael snorted, the sound bitter. “Yeah, deadlines. They’ll kill you.”

Claire glanced at him, her eyes sharp with understanding. “Want to talk about it?”

Michael hesitated. “It’s this project,” he began, his voice rough. “I’ve been working on it for weeks, but nothing’s working. The code… it’s all wrong. And it’s due tomorrow.”

Claire nodded, her expression thoughtful. “What’s the project about?”

Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s supposed to optimize the efficiency of solar panel arrays. The idea is to analyze data in real-time and adjust the angle and energy distribution in real time as well to maximize output.”

“That sounds… intense,” Claire said, her eyes widening slightly.

“It is,” Michael admitted, leaning back against the bench. “But I can’t get it to work. The code is a mess, and I don’t have time to fix it.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he added, his voice breaking.

Claire was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting over the campus. Then, she turned back to him, her eyes sharp. “Maybe you’re too close to it.”

Michael frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve been staring at it for so long, trying to make it perfect, that you’re missing the big picture,” Claire explained. “Sometimes, when we’re too focused on the details, we lose sight of the overall goal.”

Michael blinked, the truth of her words sinking in. He had been so obsessed with making the code perfect, with fixing every little bug, that he had lost sight of what the program was supposed to do.

“I think you need a fresh perspective,” Claire continued, her tone gentle. “Maybe you should step back and look at it from a different angle. Or maybe… get some help?”

She stayed quiet for a moment, her eyes thoughtful. “You know, I saw a flyer in the student center the other day. It was for a service—Certified Positivity Partner, or something like that. It sounded a little out there, but maybe it could help.”

Michael frowned. “Positivity Partner?”

“Yeah,” Claire said, pulling out her phone and scrolling through her photos. “I took a picture of the flyer. Here it is.” She handed him the phone, and Michael read the information.

“James Caldwell,” he read aloud. “Certified Positivity Partner. Focused on stress management and positive thinking.”

“It might be worth a shot,” Claire said, her tone gentle. “Sometimes just talking to someone can help.”

Michael stared at the screen, the words blurring as tears welled up again. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Claire placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch light but reassuring. “You start at the beginning.”

---

That evening, Michael found himself standing outside a small office building on the edge of campus, his phone displaying the flyer Claire had sent him. The sign on the door read, “James Caldwell, CPP” in simple, unassuming letters.

He hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open. Inside, the room was modest, with a few chairs, a small table, and a large window overlooking the quad. The man behind the desk looked up as Michael entered, a welcoming smile on his face.

“Michael, right?” James said, standing to shake his hand. “It’s great to meet you.”

Michael shook his hand, surprised by the firmness of James’ grip. “Yeah, thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem at all,” James said, motioning for Michael to take a seat. “Let’s get started.”

For the next hour, they talked—about the project, about the pressure, about the anxiety that had been eating away at Michael for weeks. James asked questions, some of them tough, but always with genuine concern. He encouraged Michael to rate his happiness on a scale of 1 to 10 as they began their session,.

“Where are you at right now, Michael?” James asked, leaning back in his chair.

Michael hesitated. “Maybe a 2,” he admitted, feeling a pang of guilt for being so low.

“That’s okay,” James said, his tone reassuring. “We’ll work on that. Let’s see where you are by the end of our session.”

James didn’t offer quick fixes or platitudes. Instead, he helped Michael break down his overwhelming tasks into manageable pieces, focusing on one thing at a time. He encouraged Michael to acknowledge his progress, no matter how small, and to practice self-compassion.

By the end of the session, Michael felt lighter. The knot of anxiety in his chest had loosened, if only slightly, and for the first time in weeks, he felt a glimmer of hope.

“So, where are you now?” James asked as they wrapped up.

Michael thought about it for a moment. “Maybe a 4.”

James smiled. “That’s progress.”

---

The next day he saw Claire approach in the cafeteria. She walked over with her tray and sat down at his lonely table without a word.

“The food’s lousy today,” he grimaced.

She smirked at that. “Hopefully, no worse than usual.”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug.

“How did it go with the positivity partner? Did you go?”

“Yeah, I went,” he admitted. “It wasn’t bad, but I’m not sure what it accomplished.”

“You mean like instant gratification?” she asked.

“I suppose…”

He fell silent.

“So what’s next with the project?” she asked.

“Nothing to be done,” he replied forlornly. “It’s due today. There’s no more time. I’ve failed.”

“That doesn’t have to be the final word,” she answered.

“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.

“Have you asked for an extension?”

“You mean from Professor Branson? Not likely! He’s the toughest prof in the department.”

“You’ll never know unless you ask,” she pointed out.

“This food is terrible,” he declared with disgust, throwing his fork onto his tray.

“Well, if you’re not going to eat that … and frankly, I don’t blame you … why don’t we go to see your professor?”

“Are you mad? You want me to go admit that I’m a failure right to his face?”

“You’re not a failure. You’re a student asking for help.”

It took a little more convincing, but she finally got him to put his tray and utensils into the dish return station and walk out the door with her.

They headed toward the engineering building in the science quad in silence. Michael moved sluggishly, but Claire had taken him by the hand and kept guiding him forward.

They arrived and went through the door. “Which way to his office?” she asked.

“This way,” he replied, releasing her hand and sloping toward the stairs.

In a moment, they stood facing the door marked, “Theodore Branson.” Michael cautiously opened it and looked inside.

“This better be quick,” an older male voice said forcefully. “I have my first class in 15 minutes.”

Michael cautiously walked in, followed by Claire.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Have a seat. It’s Mr. Cousins, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir,” Michael blanched.

“And who is this young lady?” he inquired.

“Claire McCaskill, sir,” she replied offering her hand, which he shook solemnly. “I’m along for moral support.”

Professor Branson released her hand and nodded. “Well, spit it out. Why do you need support from this young lady, Michael?”

“I–” Michael sputtered to a halt.

“Out with it, man!”

Anger surged into Michael’s eyes, and it expressed itself in his voice when he said more loudly, “My project isn’t done. I can’t seem to fix all of the software bugs.”

“I see, ” the older man said thoughtfully. “And you want an extension.”

“An extension?” Michael asked, stunned.

“Well, that’s what most students in your shoes usually want. Is that what you want?”

“I … I didn’t know… didn’t think you would do that.”

Professor Branson nodded, a little more kindly. “Tell you what. I’ll give you another week. How would that be?”

A week? That was more than Michael had hoped could possibly happen. But could he do it in time?

“I’ll help if I can,” Claire offered.

“Tell me where you’re struggling,” his teacher added.

Michael found himself explaining in detail what was happening … how buggy the software was … how the calculations were all so far off … how his program kept crashing.

“You need to focus, Mr. Cousins,” Professor Branson told him. “But I suspect you’ve been doing that a little too much, focusing on what’s not working. You need to focus instead on what does work!”

“That’s what I told him,” Claire volunteered. “He’s too close to it.”

“Sounds to me like you have a good friend here, Mr. Cousins. What’s your major, young lady?”

“Psychology,” she replied simply.

“Makes sense,” he nodded approvingly. “Mr. Cousins … Michael … I suggest you revisit your project and see if you can explain the details to this young lady in a way that the average person can understand. Don’t tell her the math or the programming logic. Instead, explain to her the details about how it’s supposed to work.”

“I have a strong feeling she can help you to see what you’ve been overlooking in your despair.”

Michael could hardly believe his luck. Professor Branson, one of the most notorious professors in the department, had actually given him a reprieve.

“Get to work,” the professor said as he stood and grabbed his briefcase. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a class to intimidate.”

Outside the office, Michael turned to Claire as Professor Branson strode away. “Would you… would you take a look at it?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

Claire smiled, her eyes warm. “Of course. I’m not an engineer, but I know a thing or two about problem-solving.”

Later that day, Michael was packing up his things in the library when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, expecting a text from David or a notification about one of his classes. Instead, it was an email from the engineering department.

“Dear Michael, due to unforeseen circumstances, we regret to inform you that…”

The words blurred together as Michael’s vision tunneled. The department was canceling his scholarship. A funding issue, they said. They couldn’t support as many students as they had hoped.

Michael’s hands shook as he read the email again, hoping he had misunderstood. But the words remained the same—final, devastating. Without the scholarship, there was no way he could afford to stay at this school. His family couldn’t cover the costs, and financial aid wasn’t enough to bridge the gap.

He felt the panic rising again, stronger this time, like a tidal wave ready to crash over him. He had worked so hard, pushed himself to the brink, and now it was all slipping away.

He stumbled out of the library, barely aware of where he was going. His feet carried him across the quad, past the dorms, and into the shadowed alley between two buildings. There, in the quiet, hidden from the world, he crumpled to the ground, the weight of his future pressing down on him like a boulder.

For what felt like hours, Michael sat there, paralyzed by fear and despair. The world around him seemed distant, unreal, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

Then, as if by some small miracle, his phone buzzed again. A text this time—from James.

“Hey, just checking in. How are you holding up?”

Michael stared at the message, his hands trembling. He could ignore it, let the darkness consume him, but something inside him—a small, fragile hope—compelled him to respond.

“Not good. Can we talk?”

The reply was almost immediate. “Of course. I’ll meet you at my office in fifteen minutes.”

---

When Michael arrived at the office, James was already there, a cup of tea waiting on the table. Michael sat down heavily, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the news.

“I lost my scholarship,” Michael said, the words spilling out in a rush. “I can’t stay here without it. I don’t know what to do.”

James listened intently, his expression serious but calm. “That’s a huge blow, Michael. I’m really sorry you’re going through this.”

Michael nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’ve worked so hard… and now it’s all falling apart.”

James leaned forward, his voice steady. “This is a tough situation, no doubt about it. But you’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out, one step at a time.”

They talked for the next hour, Michael pouring out his fears and frustrations while James listened, offering support and encouragement. They discussed possible options—appealing the decision, looking for other scholarships, considering a part-time job. It wasn’t an immediate solution, but it was a start.

By the end of the session, Michael felt a little more grounded. The situation was still dire, but he wasn’t facing it alone. He had James, and he had a plan, however uncertain it might be.

“So, where are you now?” James asked as they wrapped up.

Michael thought about it, the weight on his chest a little lighter. “Maybe a 4. But it feels like I’m heading in the right direction.”

James smiled. “That’s what matters. We’ll keep working on it. Meanwhile, get back to work on your project.”

“But I lost my scholarship! I can’t stay.”

“The email says you have to be out by Friday the 17th. That’s a week from today. Use it to work on your project. Get it done.”

Michael didn’t see how that would help, but he finally agreed to try.