Ebin had always been the kind of student that teachers dreaded—a barely passing grade, barely getting by. But he didn't care. In fact, he took it as a source of pride. "School is useless," he would shrug, staring at the gleaming screen of his second-hand laptop. He only seemed truly alive when he was playing games.
"Gaming is my future," he would often tell his friends. "One day I'll be a pro, winning tournaments, getting autographs, having millions of fans."
While other kids dreamed of becoming doctors or engineers, Ebin idolized esports legends—the ones who stood under stadium lights, headphones on, adored by thousands of fans. That was the life he wanted.
His parents, naturally, objected. To them, "gaming" was just another way of saying "addiction."
"If you dare to skip high school, I won't give you pocket money!" his father yelled across the dinner table.
"I'd rather you suffer now than ruin your life later," his mother pleaded, tears welling up in her eyes.
But Ebin felt misunderstood and suffocated. "You didn't even ask me what I wanted," he snapped, slamming the door.
A few days later, without saying goodbye, he packed his bags and boarded a train heading south. He signed up for an e-sports boot camp—one of those obscure programs he'd read about online, known for training one or two pros. His heart raced. He thought his dream was finally taking off.
But reality hit him hard on the first day.
Fourteen hours of training a day—endless drills, strategy memorization, team competitions, game reviews. His wrists ached, his neck was stiff, and his eyes stung from staring at the screen. Meals were hastily packed lunch boxes. The training room smelled of instant noodles and sweat. There was no glory, no cheering—just hard work.
The worst part? The ranking system. Every week, underperformers were eliminated, with no second chances. No matter how passionate you were, no matter how big your dreams were, it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was your data.
One night, a 14-year-old teammate laughed at him: "Do you think this has to do with dreams? I've been here for three years and I haven't passed the tryout yet."
Ebin began to doubt himself. Did he really have talent? Or was he just using "dreams" as an excuse to avoid school and responsibilities?
One night after training, he sat alone on the roof. The air was cold. He took out his phone and saw the last message his mother sent three months ago.
"Ebin, how are you? It's getting cold. Make sure you dress warmly.
Your bed is still here, waiting for you."
His eyes were blurred by tears. For the first time, he felt like a failure - not because he couldn't win, but because he chose the wrong path and didn't have the courage to admit it.