Memories flooded back, sending a shiver down my spine, like a chilling whisper from the past.

Unable to resist, despite my trembling fingers, I unlocked my phone and navigated to WhatsApp, finding Megan Blanchett's profile.

In my previous life, she was the epicenter of the plagiarism scandal—the star student at our university, worshipped by everyone.

With her stunning looks, esteemed background, and captivating aura, she was surrounded by a legion of admirers that seemed endless. Bouquets and gifts piled up on her desk daily, a testament to her magnetic charm.

Even my childhood friend, Ben Cavill, was one of her suitors. He would often share his fantasies of being with Megan, his face lightened up with joy as he spoke, a beacon of hope and yearning.

Meanwhile, I could only bury my own feelings in silence, acutely aware that I didn't possess her beauty or charm. The only thing I had to offer was my academic performance, but now, even that was gone, a shadow of its former self.

I clicked on her status, and the first post I saw was a selfie of her in a lab coat, taken late at night.

The caption was simple yet laden with expectation: [Another night in the lab. Hoping my data comes thru soon!]

A sense of confusion washed over me as I enlarged the photo, my eyes narrowing on the details.

On her desk, I spotted a notebook with the title of her experiment—identical to mine.

My mind spun, a whirlwind of questions.

"Could it be that we're somehow in sync? But her post was sent one day ahead of mine. She must have started her experiment before I did.

"Yet, I've been working independently from the very beginning. I've never borrowed anyone's work.

"Why is it so eerily similar to Megan's? Even the formatting is almost the same! This is bizarre!"

I crouched in the hallway, my thoughts a tangled mess, unable to make sense of it all, like a lost traveler in a labyrinthine forest.

As night fell, enveloping the world in its velvet embrace, I finally began to calm down.

No matter what, I had been given a second chance, and I refused to let it slip away without a fight, a warrior's resolve hardening within me.

I stood up, my limbs heavy with the weight of my decision, and headed back to the lab, my eyes scanning the completed experiments and the data I had gathered.

In the end, I decided to shut down my experiments and close the notebook, tossing it aside with a decisive flick of my wrist, a symbolic act of severing my past.

Though it bore the mark of my relentless toil, it was evident that the timing was off for its publication. I had to tuck it away for now.

From the hallowed halls of elementary school to the hallowed corridors of high school, I reigned supreme, a constant sovereign atop the academic peaks.

Even in the labyrinthine complexities of high school, I garnered laurels in national arenas.

Where others stumbled, I glided; concepts grasped with a mere glance, solutions summoned as swift as thought.

My peers dubbed me a prodigy, and my mentors treated me with a peculiar reverence.

I bore their expectations like a crown, securing admission to a bastion of higher learning with SAT scores that sparkled like polished gems.

Choosing chemistry as my domain felt like slipping into a well-worn glove, a path free from the thorns of struggle.

Papers flowed from my pen, each one a cogent argument, each one met with affirmation.

Learning, for me, was as natural as inhaling and exhaling—no strain, no weight upon my shoulders.

Yet, as the dormitory's silence descended like a velvet shroud, my thoughts began to unravel, threads of chaos weaving an intricate tapestry.

And it was within this very maelstrom that the spark of inspiration ignited.

I catapulted from my bed, a meteor in pursuit of knowledge, flicked on the lamp and delved into calculations with a fervor.

I thumbed through my textbook, revisiting a singular data point from today's experiment over and over.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, the elusive question crystallized into clarity!

With this epiphany, my paper would ascend to unprecedented heights!

The more I calculated, the more I kindled, organizing the thoughts that raced through my mind like wild horses.

At that moment, I was jarred from my reverie by my roommate, Emily Portman, her voice a blend of confusion and concern.

"Emma, you're not pulling an all-nighter studying, are you? That's a bit much, don't you think?"

Raising my head in confusion, I squinted at the clock and realized it was already 6:30 in the morning.

The light from the window was soft and golden, a gentle reminder that the world had stirred to life while I had been lost in my calculations.

Emily, noticing the shadows under my eyes, couldn't hold back her concern.

"Emma, you're smart and your grades are amazing. You worked hard enough, so don't keep pulling all-nighters like this. It's not gonna do any good to you!

"You know, maybe you could just jot down the data for now and organize it later, when you have some time."

Her words struck a chord deep within me, resonating with the very essence of my exhaustion.

Suddenly, it all made sense. This was my experiment, my data to mold and shape. I didn't need to rush to publish it; I could draft my thesis now and refine it later.

This realization was like a cool breeze on a sweltering day, washing away the tension that had enveloped me.

I could preserve my integrity and ensure that all my hard work remained intact.

A wave of relief washed over me, and I turned to Emily, ready to express my gratitude.

"Thank you so much, Emily. You really saved my ass," I said, a smile breaking through the haze of fatigue.

The gloom that had clung to me for days finally began to lift, its weight no longer pressing upon my chest.

Inspired and rejuvenated, I immersed myself in my work for the entire day, crafting a polished 2.0 version of my thesis.

As I gazed at the completed document, a sense of satisfaction swelled within me. I took a deep breath, allowing the magnitude of this moment to wash over me.

This was mine—my thesis. It was pure and undiluted work, a testament to my diligence and passion.