Mr. Smith’s chalk scraped across the blackboard, leaving faint clouds of dust in its wake. You tried, in vain, to grasp his words, but they slipped through your mind like smoke. Dozing off was impossible tho, he never repeated himself, and you were prone to losing the thread of a lecture in an instant.

Yet, despite your frustration, you found yourself drawn to his voice. Calm, measured, almost hypnotic, it lulled your thoughts into a gentle drift. You resisted sleep, though barely; there was a strange comfort in it, a danger in surrendering to the drowsy pull.

“These violent delights have violent ends.”

The words hung in the air as he read from Romeo and Juliet, pacing slowly between the desks with a deliberate grace. You had chosen this literature and poetry course only because it was easier compared to math, but now, surrounded by classmates whose boredom mirrored your own, you felt an unfamiliar thrill. The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the quiet tension of the classroom and the low hum of his narration.