Day 1’s pattern-finding exercise randomly separated competitors by 35 points. By Day 2 I was already beyond redemption at my current level, and d2T3 still cost me another 45 points.

I didn’t even brush the team-selection cutoff; I only muddled into a hundred-something place with a silver medal.

I don’t want to recall any detail of the exam—knowing I was doomed is enough.

The scores were announced from low to high. Among everyone from NFLS, I was the first to go on stage. Why was celebratory music still playing in the hall when they read out the silver-medal list?

While receiving my badge I saw people stronger than me end up with about the same score, and those on my level winning gold. My feelings were mixed. Before the provincial contest I’d agreed with WRZ to meet in Beijing, but reality dealt us a heavy blow.

After collecting the medal, SPL asked for a photo. He said I wasn’t smiling and made me retake it, so I forced a grin.

Using the official data I analyzed the score distribution of gold and silver medals: the standard deviation was only 46.74, yet Day 1 alone introduced a random 35-point spread.

It’s as if the last question of this year’s Gaokao math contained a kindergarten-level brain-teaser as one sub-problem—except that little sub-problem is worth 35 points.

I remember at the closing ceremony DZD or JTT claimed every task strictly met the required difficulty. They’re right—the full solutions were indeed reasonable: this year’s NOI had three purple and three black tasks. But were partial scores ever considered?

In the end, OI is still a game that’s 90 percent luck and 10 percent skill.

Honestly I feel little for my entire first year of high school; there isn’t much worth remembering. Daily mock contests became routine, and apart from occasionally solving a hard problem alone, there wasn’t much joy—less than what a cup of coffee could bring (more like surprise). My only gains are a few like-minded friends, a barely better-than-nothing silver medal, and PKU’s so-called “best offer below direct admission.” In a blink I’m about to become an “old” Grade-11 contestant.

I can’t really say I regret things. The only possibly regrettable choice was suspending school for half a year in ninth grade. Had I stayed, spending the last year with interesting teachers and classmates, I might have gained some beautiful memories.

But regret is useless. Besides, I had no choice. If I hadn’t suspended classes then and waited until Grade 10, I might not even have this silver medal—who knows if I’d have made the provincial team at all.

I’ve asked myself many times and still plan to fight for one more year—but definitely not because the life of suspension is enjoyable.

The sole reason to fight another year is simply unwillingness to accept this outcome. The coming year will surely be harder than the last; I wonder what state I’ll be in this time next year.

And going back isn’t that easy. After missing a full year of cultural subjects, I’d only hear heavenly scriptures in class; I’d first have to self-study for a long time. Plus, we’re in a so-called “math-science class,” the 50 : 5 kind. Spending puberty in an almost all-male environment is a bit twisted. Looked at this way, whether it’s OI or schoolwork seems the same. Could the true purpose of competition classes be to cut off contestants’ escape routes?

Strangely, I’ve always been rather laid-back, so why do I care so much about the result now?

But I really want to experience a complete high-school life! To step into the classroom at dawn and suddenly remember homework I forgot, borrow it from a friend only to find he hasn’t done it either, so we scribble madly together; to listen attentively in morning classes while occasionally chatting with nearby classmates—asking about solutions or sharing sudden gossip; to walk with friends after class, enjoy lunch and talk about everything that happened; to play board games at noon while keeping an eye on the window so we can clean up before the homeroom teacher arrives; to lie on the desk in the afternoon, eyes on the blackboard but mind wandering, secretly closing my eyes when tired; to linger in the classroom after school, go with bros to the nearby Haodi Mart, Liang-Wang-Yi-Zha or egg-filled pancake stand, then find I can’t eat dinner; even to stay up late clearing homework debt, open QQ and see classmates online…

How pleasant that would be! That was the life I once had, yet it is only the life I once had.

Let’s look at reality. How long has it been since someone messaged me on QQ about something other than OI? Probably since eighth grade. My whole life seems contained in OI now, $\text{life} \subseteq \text{OI}$. I’m not a “winner” like Kevin, grinding OI while chatting with girls and reaching LGM. The last time I talked to a girl my age was already a month ago. Thus the gap between ideal and reality widens, and I struggle in the mire of the present.

I haven’t watched much anime lately either. Being busy is one reason; even if I watch, I can’t really empathize (which is normal—most people wouldn’t).

After NOI I tried to watch some anime, but couldn’t sit through even a few minutes. I don’t know whether it’s my mood after NOI or something more practical.

Yet I once considered myself an idealist, didn’t I?

When I returned to class before the high-school entrance exam I bragged, “I stopped school for half a year, scored 560, and can still enter the best class in NFLS.” Looking back, how ironic.

Only by falling from the peak to the valley can one feel as I do now. I’ve experienced that countless times.

CandyBar often tells me NFLS’s OI training is the best in the country. Judging by results, that’s true. After all, having a huge-resource OJ and producing six national teamers a year is unique nationwide.

But under such high-intensity training, how many contestants can say it’s the lifestyle they love?

Yet everyone is like this, right? Whether in a strong school like NFLS or an institution like HB, don’t we all spend day after bland day, personalities slowly worn down by competition pressure?

Perhaps what really oppresses and twists me isn’t the training itself but the entire OI and competitive environment.

The reason is simple: the price of failure is too high. Who wants to fail? We can only keep improving, grinding endlessly.

Thinking back, when I decided in elementary school to aim for NFLS, what impression did NFLS give me? Rich club activities and a relaxed, free atmosphere. And now? Others are living the school life I long for, while I may have to grind through three years of Grade 12. It’s as if I’m here, yet the person here isn’t me.

I feel somewhat lost. What will happen in the coming year? Can I make the provincial team or even the national team? Can I stage a comeback in Grade 11 like some senior silver medalists did? Or will luck be worse—I get another silver or even bronze and start my third year of Grade 12? But those are matters for later.

Time to end. How does one write an ending? I never seem to write conclusions in essays. So let’s stop here—like that ever-lasting past and gradually disappearing future.