When the crowd goes wild and everyone stands up, who am I to refuse to clap?

The pain of an “almost” is hard to bear. I was strong enough to be there but not good enough to be dubbed as the best. When my name is called earlier than I anticipated, everyone expects me to be grateful, put up a smile, and clap for those who go up next.

I refuse to cry a river because if I do, I’ll be called out as a sore loser, even if I’m not.

My heart emits genuine happiness to the winner, but my brain does not—it's too selfish to accept the fate that destiny has decided to put up. I am very much happy for her, but not for me.

Who am I to refuse to clap? She’s the winner, and I am not. While others celebrate and shout their triumph, here I am mourning the chances that I could’ve gotten.

Where did I go wrong?

What if I did this and that?

When the podium is too low and my expectations are high, is there a way to answer the endless questions that are running through my mind?

Still, my empath self found a way to forcibly smile through the pain and hug the champ.

“Good job—congrats.”

But it wasn’t as deep as the void that my heart fell into. It was genuine, but still, a silent whisper echoes; it could’ve been me.

But for all I know, nothing hurts more than losing a competition you badly want to win.

A good headline and a heart do not assure gold—sometimes it can only give glistening silver. A sliver that cannot even dare to feel satisfaction and can only be proof that it's over.

The clock still ticked—but there's no more next time.

I can only afford to reminisce but not relive. I think of nothing but the pens dried, eyebrows burnt, and time wasted—perhaps, if I did better, all of those would be much worth it.

If only I knew how to aim for the bigger prize.

If only I were better.

I was strong enough to be there, but not good enough to be hailed as the best.

The Frontman