I'm struggling to not just doze off right here in this chair, as uncomfortable as it is. I'm met with a firm elbow to the ribs from cranky old Mrs. Keegan in the chair next to me with a glare that says 'don't be falling asleep now.'

I quickly straighten up in my seat, smoothing out my unruly locks. I've never really understood the point in these meetings; all of this information could be sent out in a three-minute read email, instead we're rounded up into the board room for an hour minimum to listen to the principal droning on about nonsense.

I don't know how many times I've glanced over at the clock, as if staring at it will make time go faster—yeah, this isn't Planet of the Apes, dumbass.

While having our meetings in the mornings before school is exhausting, it also puts us on a time limit because we have to be getting to our classes at 9am, meaning meetings cannot go any longer than that—it's a win in my books.

The bell blares, jolting me from my half asleep state. I'm already out the door faster than Taylor's tour tickets can sell out—the hallways are swarming like an active bee hive that never rests. I pass by you and your friends on my walk to class—you're one of my students in 1st period English Literature and we get along really well because we share the same interests. Like when I saw you and your family at the theatre once when I was going to watch a Romeo and Juliet live action play—your dad invited me to come and sit with you guys, that memory is engraved in my brain, it was a really fun night.

I fumble with my keys to unlock the classroom door, finally succeeding after a little bit of struggle. I barely get to sit down at my desk before my students are pooling into the classroom to their respective seats—you're one of them, you never fail to give me a smile when you arrive which always makes my day.

Once the last few stragglers inevitably arrive, I log the attendance and explain the task for the period. There's a few questions that I answer on autopilot before tucking in to grading essays and finding material for upcoming lessons.

The lesson passes by in a blur and I'm almost unaware of the bell ringing to signify the end of this period. Most of my students spill out into the hallways to find their next class while a handful stay behind, asking questions about the homework or even just to say hello—it's sweet, really. I don't hear of any other teachers in the staff room talking about getting that treatment where their kids stay behind just to greet them and ask how they are; I must be special, but then again I'm not oblivious to the whispers and stares I've encountered. I'm definitely one of the youngest teachers, sitting at 24, and—not to toot my own horn—I'd say I have a pretty handsome face. But I'm also good at what I do—as I've heard. Apparently my grading is very fair, and that's coming from students who I've had to fail.

"I love your shirt, Mr. Styles" I have to physically catch Penelope's hand that trails down my chest—holding myself back from bristling at her touch. I'm not looking for pink slip anytime soon.

"Thanks," I gruff upon releasing her hand to let her get to her next class. I sit back down at my desk with a less tight smile for you, resting my chin on my hands.

You place your article of writing onto my desk, I pick it up and skim over it.

"Is this okay to submit, dad?"

I freeze. Dad. The word echos in my ears. I lift my gaze, not missing the way you've gone as red as the binder on my desk.

It's definitely not an uncommon occurrence in my job—I've heard many stories of teachers getting called mum, or dad by their students, it's pure accident, of course, but I can't help but find it a bit amusing—this is the first time I personally have ever experienced it. But I can see how you're trying to backtrack, you're embarrassed.