Nobody really talks about the waiting. The forms get their own guides. Interviews get advice. Even rejection has language around it. But the quiet stretch

The email arrived on a Thursday afternoon. No fanfare, just a subject line that said Congratulations. For a minute I didn’t open it. I already

It was written after midnight, between two cups of reheated tea and the sound of someone snoring in the next room. I had tried three

The copier was already warm by the time I arrived. Someone had been feeding it forms all morning. I placed a passport on the glass,

The hall wasn’t built for listening. Lights buzzed, the door thumped every time someone forgot to catch it, and a line curled past a dusty

This one started with a screenshot and a groan. A friend had written a long email to an admissions address about recognising her degree for

My phone buzzed a little after eight. A friend sent a picture from a university corridor: a paper ticket with 47 on it, fluorescent lights

I didn’t work on HOPES–Madad. I met it sideways: friends came home from busy offices with stamped pages and short lists that moved their week forward.

I didn’t work on HOPES–Madad. I heard about it the way most good things travel, at kitchen tables and on late buses. Friends came home