Regrets a Mistake can Make

The sun rose, casting a soft gleam through the lingering morning chill, spreading hues of gold across the sky.

“This is a day to be celebrated,” I told myself, trying to force the thought.

But the feeling was hollow, unconvincing, like an echo that fades before it can truly be heard.

An unfamiliar room awaited me—yet as I stepped inside, the air felt nostalgic, but remained foreign.

Classrooms always smell the same to me. There’s something about that mix of chalk dust and disinfectant, and the faint smell of furniture that never changes.

Every year, when I’m assigned to a new one, that scent triggers the same response—a rush of joy, a sense of anticipation, like the start of something new.

This year should’ve been no different. But this time, my heart wasn’t filled with happiness.

There was a strange heaviness, a dull ache that I couldn’t quite explain. It sat there, lodged in my chest, as if it had been waiting for the right time to resurface once again.

I shook my head, trying to clear the useless thoughts in my mind as I buried them deep inside my aching heart.

“Where shall I sit?” I mumbled under my breath. The chairs, neatly arranged in rows, beckoned with their uniformity. The front row was always too exposed, too vulnerable, while the back felt like a retreat—a place to fade away.

I didn’t want either. I took a seat in the middle, right where I could blend in. It felt like the perfect place for someone like me.

As I settled into the chair, I let my gaze to drift around the room. It wasn’t much different from other classrooms I’d been in before—beige and green walls, rows of seats, and some windows that let in just enough sunlight to make the space feel warm but not bright.

A classmate sat a few seats away, absorbed in a book, her brow furrowed as if the world around her didn’t exist. On the walls, there were printouts, diagrams, and motivational posters plastered up in an attempt to make the room feel welcoming, trying to calm the nerves of some students still adjusting to being back after a long summer break. The scent of freshly dried paint lingered in the air, blending with the familiar smells of a classroom.

Then, I heard it. Roll.

The sound was soft at first, but it grew louder, more distinct. A wheeled bag gliding across the textured floor, its gentle hum coming closer, just inches away from the door.

I could feel it, the presence behind the sound.

There was something familiar about the way the sound mingled with the atmosphere, as if I had heard it a hundred times before, in another classroom, another year.

Especially the figure accompanying that sound—one that stirred a sense of recognition deep inside me. She was familiar, yet there was a distance between the both of us, enough to make her a stranger.

Familiar. Everything was all too familiar.

The soft, steady roll of the bag continued, now fading into the background as the person finally entered the room. I didn’t turn to look. Instead, I stared ahead, at the blackboard at the front of the room, trying to quiet the thoughts swirling in my head.

But then, it all came back to me.

The weight of my aching heart, the endless nights spent, wiping away tears that never seemed to stop, and the painful goodbyes that left me feeling hollow.

Ah, yes—

She once was mine.