Silent
I’m sitting at my desk, and the world around me is one big chaos. The teacher is talking, but the words are like a distant buzz, something that reaches me selectively and without sense. My head is bursting with thoughts, each fighting for attention, like they want to turn it into an arena. Loud, nonstop, nervous.
The sun is shining outside the window, and I feel my fingers starting to tremble. I can’t focus. The paper in front of me is blank, and I know that soon I’ll start drawing again — but this time not on the paper. The pen cap is cold in my hand, like an old friend.
When no one is looking, I slid my hand under my skirt. Gently, almost silently, I started pressing the pen cap against my thigh. It doesn’t hurt much, yet it leaves a mark — thin, red lines. Its repetitive, like I'm counting seconds. With each scratch, it gets a little quieter in my head. It’s not perfect silence, but enough to survive a little longer.
I think that if, I could I would just want to stand up and leave. Leave this classroom, this noise. But I can’t, because this sounds are in my head. I can't run away from it.
I try to focus on those lines, on their rhythm. They are so simple, unlike my racing mind. And then, for a moment, there is peace. So brief it’s almost unnoticeable, but still there.
I hear someone’s footsteps behind me. Someone says something quietly, but I’m not ready to talk. I just want this moment to last longer.
I still can’t say what will happen next.
Not yet.
