Whenever the clock creeps past 9 a.m., a vague feeling of discomfort washes over me. Before then, I’m fine. I’m supposed to be at home, waking up, eating breakfast, brushing my teeth. Everyone else is doing the same thing. All the other soon-to-be high school seniors in the sweltering days of July. But then 9 a.m. rolls around, and people march off to their summer internships, interesting jobs, and exclusive camps. But me? I stay. Stay in the house, without my internship, because I didn’t get accepted to the one I wanted. Sure, I have a grocery store job and do community service, but those are just so, perilously ... generic. They won’t pop off the page when an admissions officer glances at it.

My parents try not to pressure me. But at 9 a.m., I can feel the silent questions start to roll in like a fog, pushing against my mental defenses: Why aren’t you doing something? No, not reading, or occasionally volunteering. Something...well, you know! In my head, I shoot back responses I could never muster up the confidence to say in real life: Oh, you mean something for college? No, I know this isn’t really just for me, stop trying to convince me otherwise. The imaginary retort satisfies me for a moment, before the anxiety returns.

My sister, a year older than me, graduated about a month ago. She decided to postpone applying to colleges for a year, unsure of where exactly she wanted to go. For her, the silent questions are more explicit. There’s an urgency in my parents’ voices as they say “Come downstairs!” or “You need to get a job!” Occasionally, the urgency disappears, and with utter resignation they ask, “What’s going on?”

I don’t want that to be me. I don’t want the silent questions to turn explicit as I wallow in my indecision. So I need to get out of the house, and I pounce on any chance I get. The library is my respite, and I’m close enough to the local one and another two that I’m usually able to find shelter during the week. There, I can hunker down and just read, just be myself. But the fog is ever-present, and it reaches me in the library as well. There, I oscillate between self-acceptance and stifling anxiety. One moment I’m reading history, and the next, I rush to my computer in a desperate search for any internships that might still be on offer. It’s an impossible search.

Even going downstairs is difficult. I want to be able to sit in the kitchen and goof off with my dad, or talk about my friends with my mom. But college is an ever-present, unwelcome guest in our house, always lurking in the background, waiting to assert its importance. I avoid downstairs even more when there are guests over, who can’t help but to ask a rising senior where they’re looking and which extracurriculars they’re doing. And what do I do then? I can’t exactly lie with my parents around. No, I’d have to tell the truth, and feel their imaginary waves of judgment roll over me.

Gradually, I’ve settled into a middle ground. I’ll increase my work hours, do some more volunteering, and try my best to snag an impressive-sounding opportunity, if one still exists this late in the summer. Not for me, or even, really, for college. Mostly just so I can go downstairs again.