ACIR HILLS
The first thing I noticed when exam week officially started wasn’t the mountain of reviewers waiting inside my backpack.
It was the noise.
Not the kind created by professors discussing lessons or the hurried footsteps of students rushing toward their classrooms.
It was them.
The whispers. The stares. The quiet conversations that suddenly stopped whenever I walked past.
After the solace that the Home Center, nor the community service became an unexpected sanctuary—a place where nobody cared about my surname, my family, my grades, or the rumors circulating around campus.
To the elderly residents, I wasn’t Acir Hills, the rich girl who forged her report cards. I wasn’t the student repeating a major subject. I wasn’t the girl whose ex-boyfriend used to throw drunken tantrum
