Azel

A king left his battlefield. Without the army he deserved. His crown still carried the dust of war. His eyes still searched for belief. But even lions grow silent. When they roar alone. The world will remember the score. I will remember goodbye. The slow, unbearable walk. A throne emptied by silence. Not because Cristiano Ronaldo had fallen. But because betrayal marched beneath his own flag. Some legends are never defeated. They are simply out numbered. By doubt, by fate, by forgotten courage. And as Ronaldo disappeared into the tunnel, It felt less like the end of a match... And more like the end of an era.

Funny how endings don't announce themselves. No music. No pause long enough to understand. Just one last paper, one last tired laugh, one last walk past walls that watched us become people. We complained about mornings, counted minutes like prisoners, called it hell between attendance and exams. But somewhere inside chaos, life quietly happened. And now it's done. No more classrooms. No more weird conversations that somehow made perfect sense. No more looking around at the same faces like we'd have forever. Strange. I wanted it to end so badly. Now that it has, a part of me keeps standing there, outside that last door, not ready to leave. To the noise, the nonsense, the people who made those years something worth remembering goodbye.

Last semester breathing down my neck, theory exams stacked like unpaid debts, final year project whispering “you’re not ready yet.” Internships knocking not asking, demanding proof that I’m more than a name on a half-baked résumé. Lab practicals. where logic dies under pressure and marks depend more on timing than knowledge. And somewhere in the background, last year’s ghosts. backlogs with unfinished business, dragging chains through my present. This isn’t pressure. This is a slow collapse disguised as “final year.” And they still expect calm. Consistency. Performance. Like I’m not drowning in deadlines I never agreed to. So yeah... fuck this CS degree, but quitting would hurt more than whatever this is. And I’ve already survived worse.

Honor is a winter river clear, merciless, unadorned. It does not warm the hands that hold it. It cuts them. And asks if they will hold it still.