He carefully closes his relatively expensive review book (the only book in his possession which isn' a reprint, bought in desperate need rather than mere preference) and clumsily throws the pencil across the enclosed wooden table, making a cogwheel noise as it rolled along into the company of its comrades. He sighs, long and deep, as a man who is unaccustomed to long hours of sitting, and rubs his tired eyes. He notices that his fingers were freezing from the airconditioning. He looks around, some of the other reviewees doesn't seem to mind the cold, while others were almost clad in Alaskan parkas.

He throws a hapless look towards his recent score - a 9 out of 11, which would make at least 80 percent out of a hundred. He likes to think it that way, percentages are rather easy to understand or compare. But it would probably have been different if he answered a hundred questions, his scores contently linger below 70 percent and have never really gone above that. Well, except on rare occasions  He wonders if his reviews would make any difference. He doesn't know. He hasn't the mind to answer that intimidating yellow compilation he had sitting on a shelf for two months, nor has he bothered with the pre-Board which everyone in his class look forward to with child-like apprehension. He is afraid it would depress him or frustrate him more. He has long decided, for sheer lack of time, that he would concentrate on reading and would only answer questions in the Board examination itself. He wonders if it is a bad idea.

He gets up slowly, careful not to make too much noise and disturb the other slouching figures, and turns towards the water dispenser to make himself another coffee. His friend would normally accompany him in his breaks, and would converse with him, with odd relief, things other than nursing: computers, games, politics, etc. However, his friend texted him the night before that he would be going back to Butuan to take care of his Board application, leaving him, with such unexpectation, to finish the review in his lonesome. He doesn't mind. He has, in the past, found himself of being capable of accomplishing things alone, and has found great pride in it for it establishes his so-called independence. But he would not mind, either, any company now.

He pays the cashier for the coffee and goes back to his table. His chair makes a creaking noise as he settles down his bottom. A girl, probably distracted from her reading, looks up at him. He smiles apologetically at her. She smiles briefly and returns to her reading. He sips his coffee, it was too hot, and sits it beside the cluttered pencils. Ten days, he reminds himself, ten days left and it will all be over. He takes a look at the clock on the wall, stretches his arms, and suppresses a yawn . He gingerly opens his book again and, shaking off the thoughts in his head, proceeded to read another chapter.