The school seemed louder than usual this morning. Maybe it was just me noticing every sound too clearly: the squeaking of sneakers on the linoleum, the rumble of voices in the hallways, the metallic clanking of lockers being slammed shut. Everything seemed too loud, too sharp, too close.
The buzzing of the neon tubes in the corridor settled like a thin whistling behind my temples. Someone laughed shrilly, another called out to a friend, books fell to the floor. The sounds hit me like small blows. I held onto my routine – books from the locker, folders under my arm, hood pulled up a bit higher. But nothing felt normal. Not after last night.
My hands were cold, despite being buried in my pockets. I counted my steps to the door, forced myself to breathe calmly. One, two, three. The smell of cleaning products hung in the air, sharp and artificial. Everything smelled like Monday, like beginnings – and I felt as if something inside me had long since ended.
