The Application That Changed Everything

“Deleted your med school application. Now you can’t compete with me,” my sister texted at 11:42 p.m. By dawn, my status read WITHDRAWN and she was laughing in the next room. I spent the night begging admissions, convinced my future was gone with one click. By noon, our landline rang, my parents froze, and an unfamiliar voice asked for me. My sister smirked—until he mentioned IP logs, sabotage… and then said he was the dean.

The text came at exactly 11:42 p.m.

I remember the time because I had my laptop clock, my phone clock, and the tiny digital alarm clock on my nightstand all lined up in my field of vision, like three silent witnesses to my obsession.

I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, laptop balanced on my thighs, a half-cold mug of coffee abandoned on the nightstand. My room was dark except for the bluish glow of my screen, and the rest of the house had gone quiet hours ago. Every few minutes, I refreshed my email—the application portal, my inbox, even the spam folder sometimes, just in case.

Months of preparation were folded into that application like layers of delicate paper: entrance exams that had eaten my weekends, interviews that had left my palms damp and my throat dry, personal statements rewritten until three in the morning. I had poured every version of myself onto those pages: the daughter, the student, the volunteer at the free clinic, the scared little girl who once watched an ambulance drive away with someone she loved.

This application wasn’t just paperwork.

It was my way out.

Out of this town that felt too small, out of the narrow corridor of expectations my family had built for me, out of the unspoken rule that my life had to orbit around my older sister.

I was in the middle of reading through my own personal statement again when my phone buzzed on the bed beside me.

I glanced at the screen.

My sister’s name.

The preview flashed up before I could ignore it.

“Deleted your med school application. Now you can’t compete with me “

At first, I thought I was misreading it.

My eyes skimmed it once, twice. The smiling emoji at the end looked like some small, cruel fingerprint smudged onto the sentence.

My heart started pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears.

No.

I unlocked my laptop with shaking hands, fingers tripping over the keys. The med school application portal was already pinned in my browser, and I clicked it so fast I almost snapped the trackpad.

The page loaded. The familiar logo. My name.

Then I saw it.

Application Status: WITHDRAWN.

For a second, the letters didn’t make sense. They were just black shapes on a white screen. Then my vision tunneled, the edges of the screen blurring while those words stayed sharp like glass.

Withdrawn.

Not “under review.” Not “complete.” Withdrawn.

I pressed my thumb so hard into the trackpad that it hurt. I clicked everything I could see—tabs, submenus, help links—desperately looking for some kind of undo button.

There was nothing.

No “restore” option. No “are you sure?” confirmation. Just a final, indifferent status staring back at me.

I tasted metal in my mouth and realized I’d been biting my tongue.

My sister and I had used the same computer earlier that week. She’d needed help printing something for her own application. She’d sat on the chair while I stood behind her, walking her through the portal. I remember typing in my password to show her the layout. I remember her watching carefully, too carefully, and I remember thinking it was nice for once that she wasn’t making fun of me.

Now all of that trust gathered itself into a tight fist in my stomach and squeezed.

My hands shook as I reached for my phone and hit call.

She picked up on the second ring.

“What?” she said, annoyingly bright.

“What did you do?” My voice came out a rasp.

She laughed. Full, unhurried laughter, as if I’d just tripped over my own feet.

“You should have seen your face just now,” she said. I could picture her in her room, lying on her bed with the lights off, screen glowing up at her.

“Why would you do that?” I whispered.

There was a tiny pause.

“Because you’re not the only one who wants to be a doctor,” she replied, the lightness gone. “And I’m not letting you ruin my chances.”

For a second, the silence between us was louder than her laughter had been.

“You think deleting my application helps you?” I asked. My voice cracked on the last word.

She didn’t answer.

“Lena?” I pressed. “You think this is a game? You—”

The call clicked and went dead.

She’d hung up.

I stared at my phone in disbelief. The little “call ended” note might as well have read: you’re alone in this.

The room lurched around me. I placed the phone down carefully and turned back to my laptop.

Withdrawn.

The word sat there, indifferent to my panic.

The next hours blurred into a frantic series of actions that felt both hyper-focused and completely unreal.

I opened my email and typed as fast as my shaking hands would allow.

Subject: URGENT – Unauthorized Withdrawal of Application

I explained everything as clearly as I could: that my account had been accessed without my consent, that my application had been withdrawn while I was asleep, that there had been previous use of the same computer by my sister. I wrote that this application meant everything to me and begged them to investigate.

When I hit send, I felt both relief and terror.

Then I wrote another email. And a third. Slight variations, different recipients within the admissions office. Anything that might increase the odds of a human being seeing my name.

No reply.

Not that night, at least.

The minutes thickened into hours. I refreshed my email so often that my inbox began to look like a still photograph. No new messages. Nothing but the evidence of my own desperation in the sent folder.

I didn’t sleep.

Instead, I lay in bed, eyes wide open, the ceiling blurring above me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the word withdrawn printed across the darkness in big, bold letters.

In the silence, memories of my sister kept rising up like ghosts.

Lena pushing me on the swing when we were five, then suddenly letting go at the highest point so I toppled off and scraped my knees. Ten-year-old Lena “accidentally” spilling juice on my science fair project the night before the presentation. Fourteen-year-old Lena, rolling her eyes when I stayed late after school, calling me “teacher’s pet” in a sing-song voice.

Our parents always brushed it off.

“She’s just teasing,” my mother would say. “You know your sister. She doesn’t mean it.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” my father would add. “You’re smart. It’s natural she’s a little jealous sometimes.”

You’re smart. She’s jealous. As if that made it my problem to manage her feelings.

But this was different. This wasn’t juice on a poster or name-calling. This was my future. She had walked into my digital life, typed my password, opened my portal, and deliberately clicked withdraw on the one thing that meant more to me than anything else I’d ever done.

And then sent me a smiling emoji.

Around three in the morning, the house creaked. Somewhere down the hall, the heater kicked on. A car passed outside, its headlights briefly tracing a line across my ceiling.

In the distance, Lena’s playlist rumbled softly through the wall we shared.

She slept.

I didn’t.

By morning, the first grey light of dawn snuck in through the gap in my curtains, turning the room a washed-out color. My eyes burned from staring at screens. My spine ached from the position I’d been sitting in for hours.

I had sent three emails. I had checked my spam folder so many times that the word “Spam” had lost all meaning.

No reply.

My parents moved around somewhere in the house, their footsteps muffled by carpet. I couldn’t face them. I couldn’t explain this without breaking.

I sat in silence, replaying every detail in my mind, hating myself for trusting her.

I should have logged out. I should have never typed my password in front of her. I should have known that to her, the line between prank and betrayal was barely a smudge.

Around noon, when my exhaustion had settled into a numb fog, my phone rang.

The sound sliced through the quiet so abruptly that I jumped. An unknown number flashed on the screen. The area code was from the city where the medical school was.

My hand moved on its own, thumb sliding across the screen.

“Hello?” My voice came out hoarse.

“Hello, is this Nadia Rahman?”

“Yes,” I said. My heart tripped, then broke into a sprint.

“This is Dr. Hassan from the College of Medicine admissions committee.”

My throat closed. I managed a small, strangled sound that was supposed to be, “Hi.”

“I’m calling because something unusual happened with your application,” he continued, his tone calm, measured, professional.

“I… I know,” I whispered. “My sister—”

He cut in gently.

“We’re aware,” he said.

I blinked, sitting up straighter.

“What?”

“We monitor access to our application portal,” he explained. “Last night, your account was accessed from a different IP address than usual, and at a time that didn’t match your prior login pattern. The system flagged the activity as unusual.”

I tried to process that. My brain snagged on the phrase “different IP address.”

“Our IT team reviewed it this morning,” he went on. “We also received your emails. All three of them.” I heard the faintest hint of warmth at that. “I want to assure you your application is not deleted. It was temporarily withdrawn, but we restored it immediately.”

The room tilted. I squeezed my eyes shut, and for a terrifying second, I thought I might pass out from the whiplash of going from despair to relief so fast.

“It’s… it’s still there?” I croaked.

“Yes,” he said. “Every component is intact. We have locked the account temporarily and reset your password. You’ll receive instructions to create a new one. We wanted to speak with you directly to confirm the details.”

I exhaled so sharply it almost sounded like a sob. I pressed a hand over my mouth.

“Thank you,” I managed. “Thank you, thank you, I—”

“There’s more,” he added.

Of course there was.

My heart tried to sprint again.

“We need to discuss what happened,” Dr. Hassan said. “Not just for your application, but because this is a serious matter. Academic sabotage is something we take very seriously. Can you tell me what you know about who accessed your account?”

I swallowed hard.

“My sister,” I said. The words felt like stones in my mouth. “Lena. She… we were both applying. She used my computer last week and I gave her my password to help her with her own application. I didn’t think she’d—”

I stopped. My voice was shaking.

“I understand,” Dr. Hassan said quietly. “This is difficult. But I need you to know that what happened here goes beyond sibling rivalry. This is fraud. It’s unauthorized access to a secure system. And if your sister is also an applicant to our program, this has serious implications for her application as well.”

The weight of what he was saying settled over me slowly.

Lena had sabotaged me. But in doing so, she’d also sabotaged herself.

“We’ll need to investigate this formally,” he continued. “That means we’ll be reviewing both applications, all login records, and potentially involving campus security. I want to be transparent with you about that process.”

“What does that mean for her?” I asked, and I hated that even now, even after what she’d done, I still cared about the answer.

“That depends on what our investigation finds,” he said. “But unauthorized access to another applicant’s account, especially with malicious intent, is grounds for immediate application rejection. Possibly more, depending on what our legal team recommends.”

My stomach twisted.

“I’m calling from my personal line,” Dr. Hassan added, “because I wanted to reach you directly before this becomes a formal administrative matter. In about an hour, someone from our office will be calling your home landline to speak with you and your parents. Given that your sister is also an applicant, we’ll need to speak with her as well.”

“Our landline?” I repeated.

“Yes. We have it listed as your primary contact. Is that still accurate?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. Expect a call around 1 p.m. I wanted to give you advance notice so you weren’t blindsided.”

I glanced at the clock. It was 12:17.

“Dr. Hassan,” I said, my voice small. “Am I… is my application still being considered? Or is this going to—”

“Your application is absolutely still being considered,” he said firmly. “In fact, Nadia, I want you to know something. I’m calling you personally because I’m also the one who reviewed your file initially. Your personal statement was one of the strongest I’ve read this cycle. Your volunteer work at the free clinic, your MCAT scores, your letters of recommendation—they paint a picture of exactly the kind of student we want in our program.”

My eyes burned.

“What happened last night was not your fault,” he continued. “And it will not affect how we evaluate your application. If anything, the way you responded—immediately notifying us, documenting everything—that showed us something about your character that we don’t always see in essays.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat had closed up entirely.

“Expect the call at one,” he said gently. “And Nadia? Take a breath. You’re going to be okay.”

The line went dead.

I sat there holding my phone, staring at the wall, trying to process what had just happened.

My application was restored.

They knew what Lena had done.

And in less than an hour, someone was calling the house.

I needed to tell my parents.

I found them in the kitchen. My mother was chopping vegetables at the counter, my father reading the newspaper at the table with his reading glasses perched on his nose.

They both looked up when I entered.

“Nadia,” my mother said, frowning slightly. “You look terrible. Did you sleep at all?”

“No,” I said. My voice came out flat. “I need to tell you something.”

My father folded his newspaper, suddenly attentive.

I told them everything. The text. The withdrawal. The emails. The phone call from Dr. Hassan. The fact that in less than an hour, someone from the medical school was going to call the house to discuss what Lena had done.

My mother’s knife stopped moving. She set it down slowly, staring at me.

“Lena did what?” she whispered.

“She withdrew my application,” I said. “She logged into my account and deleted months of work because she didn’t want me to compete with her.”

My father’s face had gone very still.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I pulled out my phone and showed him the text. The smiling emoji glowed up at him like a tiny, mocking face.

He read it twice. Then he stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Where is your sister?” he asked, his voice quiet in a way that made the air in the kitchen feel thin.

“In her room, I think,” I said.

He walked out of the kitchen without another word.

My mother and I stood in silence. She was staring at the cutting board like she’d forgotten what vegetables were for.

“Why would she do this?” my mother whispered. “Why would she…”

“Because she’s always done things like this,” I said, and I heard the bitterness in my own voice. “You just never wanted to see it.”

My mother flinched.

Before she could respond, we heard my father’s voice from upstairs, sharp and angry. Then Lena’s voice, defensive at first, then rising in pitch.

My mother moved toward the stairs, but I caught her arm.

“Wait,” I said. “The school is calling in twenty minutes. We need to be ready.”

She looked torn, glancing between the stairs and me.

“Nadia—”

“Mom, this isn’t a joke,” I said. “This isn’t spilled juice or a ruined poster. This is fraud. The school is investigating. Lena could lose her application. She could face legal consequences. We need to be ready for that call.”

My mother’s face went pale.

Upstairs, the argument escalated. I heard Lena shouting, “It was just a prank! She’s overreacting!”

Then my father’s voice, louder than I’d ever heard it: “You sabotaged your sister’s future and you think it’s a prank?”

At exactly 1:00 p.m., the landline rang.

The sound cut through the house like a siren.

My father came down the stairs, his face flushed, Lena trailing behind him. Her eyes were red, her expression somewhere between defiant and terrified.

My mother picked up the phone on the third ring.

“Hello?” she said, her voice carefully controlled.

“Yes, this is she.”

She listened for a moment, her expression growing more serious.

“Yes, both of our daughters applied. Yes, we’re aware of the situation.”

She glanced at me, then at Lena.

“Of course. Yes. I’ll put you on speaker.”

She pressed a button and set the phone down on the kitchen table.

A woman’s voice filled the room, professional and measured.

“Good afternoon. This is Dean Patricia Okonkwo from the College of Medicine. I’m calling regarding a serious incident that occurred last night involving unauthorized access to an applicant’s portal.”

Lena’s face went white.

“We’ve completed a preliminary investigation,” the dean continued. “Our IT security team has confirmed that at 11:36 p.m. last night, Nadia Rahman’s application account was accessed from an IP address registered to this household. Six minutes later, the application was withdrawn. The IP address matches previous logins associated with Lena Rahman’s application account.”

My father was staring at Lena with an expression I’d never seen before.

“We also have the text message sent from Lena’s phone to Nadia’s phone at 11:42 p.m., which Nadia forwarded to our office as part of her report. The message explicitly claims responsibility for deleting the application.”

Lena opened her mouth, then closed it.

“This constitutes unauthorized access to a secure system, academic sabotage, and fraud,” Dean Okonkwo said. “These are not matters we take lightly. I’m calling to inform you that Lena Rahman’s application has been withdrawn and she is no longer eligible for admission to our program. Furthermore, we will be flagging her record in the national application system, which will likely affect her ability to apply to other medical schools.”

Lena made a sound like she’d been punched in the stomach.

“Additionally,” the dean continued, “we are considering whether to refer this matter to local authorities for potential criminal charges related to computer fraud.”

My mother grabbed the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

“Dean Okonkwo,” my father said, his voice strained. “I understand the severity of what happened. My daughter—Lena—she made a terrible mistake. Is there any possibility of—”

“Mr. Rahman,” the dean interrupted gently but firmly, “what your daughter did was not a mistake. It was a deliberate act of sabotage. She accessed her sister’s private account, navigated through multiple pages, clicked through confirmation prompts, and then sent a message bragging about it. That’s not a mistake. That’s malicious intent.”

Silence filled the kitchen.

“However,” the dean continued, and I heard something shift in her tone, “we are an educational institution. We believe in learning and growth. Lena is young. This may be the worst decision she’s ever made, but it doesn’t have to define her entire future.”

Lena lifted her head slightly.

“We will not be pursuing criminal charges at this time,” Dean Okonkwo said. “But the withdrawal of her application stands. She will not be admitted to our program this year. If she chooses to reapply in the future—and that is a significant if—she will need to demonstrate substantial personal growth and take full responsibility for what she did. That means therapy, community service, and a complete overhaul of her understanding of ethics and integrity.”

“Thank you,” my father said quietly. “Thank you for that.”

“As for Nadia,” the dean said, and I felt everyone’s eyes turn to me, “her application has been fully restored. She did everything right. She reported the incident immediately, provided documentation, and handled herself with remarkable professionalism under extraordinary stress. Those are exactly the qualities we look for in future physicians.”

My vision blurred. I blinked hard.

“Nadia,” Dean Okonkwo said, addressing me directly now, “we’ll be sending you a new password and additional security measures for your account. Your application is not just being considered—it’s being moved forward in our process. You should expect to hear about your interview schedule within the next two weeks.”

I couldn’t speak. I managed a small, choked, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said warmly. “And Nadia? I hope to see you on campus soon.”

The call ended.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Lena stood up abruptly, her chair screeching against the floor, and ran upstairs. Her door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls.

My father sat down heavily, his head in his hands.

My mother looked at me, her eyes shining with tears.

“Nadia,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I should have seen… I should have…”

I shook my head.

“It’s done,” I said. My voice sounded strange—calm, distant, like it belonged to someone else. “It’s over.”

But it wasn’t over.

Not really.

The next few weeks were strange and tense. Lena barely left her room. When she did, she moved through the house like a ghost, avoiding eye contact, saying nothing.

My parents tried to talk to her. I heard my mother’s voice through the walls, pleading, reasoning, sometimes crying. My father’s voice, firm and disappointed, laying out exactly how much Lena had risked and lost.

She started seeing a therapist. Twice a week, she’d leave the house with her head down and come back quiet.

I tried to feel vindicated. I tried to feel like justice had been served.

Instead, I mostly felt tired.

Two weeks later, I got the email about my interview.

I sat at the same desk, in the same room, staring at the same screen where I’d seen the word WITHDRAWN.

Now it said: INTERVIEW SCHEDULED.

I read the email three times.

Then I walked down the hall and knocked on Lena’s door.

“Go away,” she said.

“It’s me,” I said.

Silence.

Then, quietly: “What do you want?”

“I got my interview,” I said.

More silence.

I stood there for a long moment, my hand resting on the doorframe.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” I said. “Maybe because… I don’t know. Maybe because you’re still my sister.”

I heard movement inside. Then the door opened a crack.

Lena stood there, her eyes red-rimmed, her hair unwashed. She looked smaller than I remembered.

“Congratulations,” she said. The word came out flat, but I didn’t hear sarcasm in it. Just exhaustion.

“Thanks,” I said.

We stared at each other.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. I know you probably hate me. But I’m sorry.”

I thought about it. Did I hate her?

“I don’t hate you,” I said finally. “But I don’t trust you. And I don’t know if I ever will again.”

She nodded, her jaw tight.

“That’s fair,” she whispered.

“What you did wasn’t about med school,” I said. “It was about you being afraid that I’d succeed and you’d fail. And that’s something you need to figure out with your therapist, not with me.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I know,” she said.

I turned to leave, then stopped.

“Lena,” I said, not looking back, “if you ever decide to apply again—to any school, for anything—do it because you want it. Not because you’re competing with me. Because we were never actually in competition. We were just… living different lives.”

I didn’t wait for her response.

I went back to my room, sat down at my desk, and opened the interview prep materials.

The interview was three weeks later.

I wore my best suit—the one I’d bought with money from my clinic shifts. I practiced my answers until they felt natural instead of rehearsed. I read everything I could about the program, the faculty, the research opportunities.

The morning of the interview, my mother made me breakfast. My father drove me to the train station. Lena stayed in her room, but when I came downstairs with my bag, there was a note on the kitchen table in her handwriting.

Good luck. You’ve got this. –L

I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket.

The interview went well. Better than well. The panel asked thoughtful questions. I gave thoughtful answers. I felt like myself—not a perfect version, but an honest one.

When it was over, I walked out of the building into the afternoon sunlight and just breathed.

Six weeks later, the acceptance email came.

I was sitting in my room, doing homework, when my phone buzzed.

The subject line read: CONGRATULATIONS.

My hands shook as I opened it.

Dear Nadia Rahman, We are pleased to offer you admission to the College of Medicine…

I read it once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then I stood up, walked to my door, opened it, and shouted down the hallway.

“I got in!”

My mother screamed. My father came running up the stairs so fast he nearly tripped. They burst into my room and we collapsed into a hug that felt like it was holding up all three of us.

Lena appeared in the doorway.

She stood there, watching us, her expression unreadable.

Then, quietly, she smiled.

Not a big smile. Not a fake one. Just a small, sad, genuine curve of her lips.

“Congratulations, Nadia,” she said.

And for the first time in months, I smiled back.

“Thanks, Lena.”

That summer, I worked double shifts at the clinic to save money. I bought textbooks. I found a tiny apartment near campus. I packed my life into boxes and said goodbye to the room I’d grown up in.

Lena started community college. She was taking prerequisites, she said, for a nursing program. Not pre-med. Something different. Something hers.

We didn’t talk much. We were still rebuilding something that had been broken for a long time—maybe always.

But the night before I left for medical school, she knocked on my door.

“Come in,” I said.

She stepped inside, holding something in her hands.

“I got you this,” she said, holding out a small wrapped package.

I took it, surprised.

Inside was a stethoscope. Not expensive. Not fancy. But new, and carefully chosen.

“You’ll need one,” she said. “For when you start clinicals.”

My throat tightened.

“Lena—”

“I know I don’t deserve to give you anything,” she said quickly. “I know what I did. But I wanted you to have this. Because you earned it. You earned all of it.”

I held the stethoscope in my hands, the weight of it unfamiliar but right.

“Thank you,” I said.

She nodded, blinking fast.

“Be great, Nadia,” she said. “I mean it. Be the doctor I couldn’t be.”

“You could still—” I started.

“No,” she said. “Not like you. And that’s okay. I’m figuring out who I am. It’s just… it’s going to take me a while.”

I stood up and hugged her.

She hugged me back.

It didn’t fix everything. It didn’t erase what she’d done.

But it was a start.

And sometimes, a start is enough.

I left for medical school the next morning.

My parents drove me, the car packed with boxes and bags and all the pieces of a future I’d almost lost.

As we pulled away from the house, I looked back one last time.

Lena stood on the porch, one hand raised in a wave.

I waved back.

Then I turned forward, toward the road ahead, toward the life I’d fought for.

And I didn’t look back again.

THE END

A story about sabotage and second chances, the complexity of family loyalty, and the courage to build your own future even when the people you love try to tear it down.

Lila Hart

Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.

Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.

At TheArchivists, Lila is known for her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to uncover hidden gems within extensive archives. Her work is praised for its depth, authenticity, and contribution to the preservation of knowledge in the digital age.

Driven by a commitment to preserving stories that matter, Lila is passionate about exploring the intersection of history and technology. Her goal is to ensure that every piece of content she handles reflects the richness of human experiences and remains a source of inspiration for years to come.