I remember the votes... How the digits danced like dreams I couldn’t hold. How my name echoed through group chats — like a mission, a movement… Until it didn't mean much anymore. And suddenly, the dark silence began. They said I lost. Like my art was a receipt, and worth was bought with transfers. With funds! They didn’t know, that piece came from the deepest place. From scars I never posted. From prayers whispered on car rides. From a fire I lit, just to find warmth in this cold world. And when I didn’t win, they said, “It’s okay.” But deep down, it didn’t feel okay. People’s voices blamed me. My thoughts became thorns. I turned every flyer into a flashback, every new chance into a wound reopening. But guess what? That competition didn’t define me. It exposed me — to me. And I didn’t die there. Oh, I cried. I crumbled. But then I wrote this. I bounced back on my feet even when I didn’t feel propelled to get up. And then I knew that the votes, the voices in my head and out loud... All the loss didn’t mean lacking. And the times I failed didn’t mean I was a failure. And when I see myself in the mirror, I don’t see a loser. I see a light. I see a force. I see me.