The rhythm of university life is like a rushing river, with academics, socializing, and future planning each vying for limited time and energy. The graduate entrance exam, as a heavy puzzle piece, makes it hard to breathe. In the first semester of my junior year, I began to take root at my desk, opening "Fundamentals of Political Science," spreading out math formulas, trying to find direction in the ocean of knowledge. The succulent on my desk became my unintentional confidant. In the early morning, while organizing my notes, I would glance at it, feeling its presence was a reminder: keep going, life will eventually bloom. When watering it, I would softly talk to myself: "You need to grow well, and I need to study well." This sense of ritual felt like adding a layer of protection to my belief, as if as long as it continued to grow, my efforts would not be in vain. I even imagined that it, like me, was quietly accumulating strength in its own way, waiting for the moment to break through the soil. Whenever I felt tired, its quiet green always managed to calm me down briefly, as if saying: don't rush, take your time.

The growth of succulents is slow; they are not as flamboyant as flowers, nor as reckless as vines. They quietly absorb sunlight and moisture, occasionally sprouting a new leaf to declare their presence. This characteristic strangely aligns with the pace of preparing for the graduate entrance exam. The preparation process is never a frenzied sprint but rather a daily accumulation and endurance. I once fantasized about being able to efficiently complete my daily plans like those top students, systematically tackling each difficult problem. However, reality is always unrelenting. The results of my first mock exam felt like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing my initial confidence. My math was a complete mess, and my English reading comprehension accuracy was so low that I doubted my language ability. That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the succulent, murmuring, "Why do you grow so slowly, and why do I learn so slowly?" Its silence resonated with me, as if it too was experiencing some long wait in its own way. I even began to doubt whether it was mocking my incompetence. This self-mockery left me feeling powerless, but I still picked up my pen and continued to open the error collection, trying to regain a bit of confidence from my failures.

Anxiety creeps in like vines, silently wrapping around me. In the second semester of my junior year, the pressure of the graduate entrance exam began to seep into every corner of my life. The lights in the dormitory stayed on late into the night, and my roommates were all buried in their studies, creating an atmosphere of silent tension. Social activities were compressed to almost zero, and the dynamics in my social circle shifted from party photos to vocabulary check-ins and error collections. I began to envy the simplicity of succulents; they do not have to face the torment of multiple-choice questions, nor do they have to scratch their heads over a proof problem on countless nights. Watering became my brief moment of respite, as I would stare at its leaves, trying to draw a bit of calm from that silent green. Sometimes, I even fantasized that if I could endure drought and survive barrenness like the succulent, perhaps I could face the unknown of the graduate entrance exam more easily. However, this fantasy was quickly shattered by reality. Anxiety did not dissipate because of a potted plant; instead, it grew heavier with each failure in the mock exams. I began to suffer from insomnia, waking up in the middle of the night with my mind filled with unresolved math problems and vocabulary I couldn't memorize. The succulent appeared particularly quiet under the moonlight, as if reminding me that calmness must be fought for. I tried to take deep breaths, telling myself: just hold on for one more day, try again.

Succulents are not invincible. During one final exam week, I was busy reviewing and forgot to water it. A few days later, I noticed its leaves starting to soften, the edges turning yellow, as if silently protesting my neglect. I hurried to remedy the situation, checking information, adjusting the water amount, and even buying nutrient solution, trying to revive its vitality. This process made me realize that taking care of plants, like preparing for the graduate entrance exam, requires continuous investment and careful nurturing. Neglecting either side has obvious consequences. During that time, I began to reflect on my preparation state. Was it because I focused too much on anxiety and neglected the real effort that needed to be sustained? The wilted succulent mirrored my own slackness. I started to readjust my pace, breaking down the big goal into smaller tasks, accumulating bit by bit like watering the succulent. I told myself to memorize ten words a day, solve one math problem, and even if the progress was slow, it was still moving forward. Every time I completed a small goal, I would look at the succulent, as if sharing my tiny victory with it.

This accumulation process was filled with fragmented struggles. The dormitory building was still shrouded in mist in the early morning, and I was already at my desk silently memorizing political knowledge points, occasionally looking up at the succulent, as if it was also waking up early with me. Late at night, after the dormitory lights went out, I turned on my desk lamp and continued organizing my error collection, with the succulent casting a soft shadow in the light, like a silent guardian. Its presence became an anchor in my preparation life, reminding me not to be led by emotions but to focus on every small step in the present. However, the pressure of the graduate entrance exam was not only about academics but also about the comparisons and expectations from those around me. The progress of my roommates, the mock exam scores of my classmates, and even those "success stories" online felt like invisible whips, urging me to speed up. I began to doubt my abilities, even questioning whether choosing to take the graduate entrance exam was the right decision. One late night, I opened my error collection and found that I had made the same mistake again, angrily slamming my pen on the desk. The succulent sat quietly there, as if using its silence to tell me: slamming the pen is useless, calm down, and keep working on the problems. I took a deep breath, picked up my pen again, and told myself: failure is normal, but giving up is not.

As the senior year began, the graduate entrance exam entered the sprint stage, and the pressure surged like a tide. The flower market downstairs was no longer lively, the summer cicadas were replaced by the autumn wind, yet the succulent on my desk unexpectedly sprouted a slender flower bud. It bloomed, small and stubborn, as if using its own way to tell me that after enduring a long wait, there will eventually be a reward. Looking at that cluster of flowers, I suddenly felt that the meaning of the graduate entrance exam might not only lie in the results but also in those solitary nights of struggle, those moments of dialogue with myself. Regardless of whether I ultimately succeeded, this period taught me how to coexist with pressure and how to find hope in failure. I began to cherish those moments spent with the succulent even more; each time I watered it felt like giving myself a chance to start anew. I even began to record its growth changes, writing down the days it sprouted new leaves or bloomed in my notebook, as if documenting my own preparation journey.

The flowering period of succulents is short; after the flowers wither, they return to their previous calm. My journey for the graduate entrance exam continues, and the future remains unclear, but I am no longer as afraid of failure as I was at the beginning. The succulent on my desk still quietly accompanies me, witnessing my anxiety, perseverance, and growth. It is not just a simple plant but a reflection of my determination for the graduate entrance exam, a promise I made to myself during this youth. Whenever I feel tired or confused, I look at it, reminding myself: just like it can bloom in barrenness, my efforts will eventually find their own soil.