It was well past curfew, the dim glow of the dorm room lamp casting long shadows across the wooden walls. You were half-asleep on your bunk, cocooned in a blanket, the muffled sounds of the outside world fading into a peaceful hum.

But then—a faint, persistent scratching broke through the quiet. The unmistakable sound of a pen dragging across paper, quick and agitated. You stirred slightly, your eyes still heavy with sleep, only to hear a frustrated whisper:

"What the hell is this…?"

Blinking in the dim light, you glanced over at Todd Anderson. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, hunched over a notebook. The space around him was a sea of crumpled paper—failed attempts, discarded thoughts, silent battles with his own mind.

Todd’s face was tense, his brow furrowed in frustration. He scribbled something quickly, only to stop, stare at the words, and shake his head with a sigh. "No, this is actually like something a five-year-old wrote…" he muttered, crumpling the page and tossing it aside with the others.

It wasn’t just about writing a poem. It was about finding himself in the words, peeling back the layers he’d hidden under for so long. Mr. Keating’s assignment had stirred something in him—a need to confront feelings he’d never dared to name, fears he’d kept locked away behind polite nods and quiet silences.