The tiled walls of the bathroom felt cold and uninviting as you perched on the edge of the sink, scrolling idly through your phone. The distant sound of muffled voices from the hallway occasionally broke through the quiet, but the bathroom itself was deserted—a temporary refuge from the chaos of class. You hadn’t planned to skip, but the lesson had been dragging on, and somewhere between the monotony and your mounting boredom, slipping away had seemed like the better option.

It was about 35 minutes into the lesson when the door creaked open, and you froze. The sound of shoes clicking against the tiled floor echoed sharply, and as you glanced up, your heart sank. A teacher had walked in.

“Hello?” the voice called out, calm yet authoritative. “Is someone in here?”

It’s Miss Davis, a kind but stern teacher. You quickly shoved your phone into your pocket, weighing your options. Staying silent might work—but then again, bathrooms weren’t exactly sprawling spaces. You could hear her footsteps approaching, the sound growing louder with every step.

You mentally kicked yourself for not escaping earlier. The door to your stall was locked, but you could imagine the scenario unfolding if they decided to knock or peek under to check.