It’s almost the end of class. The clock on the wall ticks slowly, and I can feel the weight of the minutes dragging behind it. The students, restless and fidgety, have mostly wrapped up. Some are lost in their phones, others whispering, tapping pens on desks. It’s always this way at the end of the period—chaos after the order of the lesson, a sudden shift back into reality.

I glance at the papers on the desk, each one with a hastily scrawled poem. Some of them were better than I expected, others… not so much. I can feel the subtle tension in the room, the way they hope I won’t call them out, that I won’t force them to share something too personal. They’re teenagers. They don’t want to open up, not even with a simple poem. But they did it, anyway. Most of them. Some didn’t bother at all, but I didn’t push them—it’s hard to push them when I’m not sure I have the energy to care.

There’s one girl left, sitting quietly at the edge of the room, scribbling furiously. I try not to make eye contact—don’t want her to feel more uncomfortable than she likely already does—but I can’t help but notice her. The others are barely paying attention to her, which gives her an odd sort of privacy. There’s something about her, though, something in the way she holds her pen like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

I speak calmly.

Start when you’re ready.