An Ode for Someone Who Never Existed

Everyone falls into routine, especially in a classroom. Students scramble from classroom to classroom, hoping to make it in time before the late bell rung. Some people couldn’t be bothered to wade past the sea of students and took their time. Chaya was one of those students. She moved with the current in a way that minimalized the contact on her body. It didn’t take much longer to reach the door when you weren’t pushing.

After setting down her worn bag behind her, Chaya sits at her favorite table, the one farthest from the classroom’s entrance. No one else could ever sit there because she always came in the classroom first. She liked it best because her teachers loved to keep the troublesome students up front. It had the least amount of gum to it’s underside, but it was also right under a vent. Good thing Chaya never forgot her jacket. She never forgets a single thing. Whether it was a question on a test or if it was something another student said about her, Chaya never forgets.

As soon as the late bell rung, class began. The nameless teacher began by first mocking those still walking in. “Late, late, and you’re late,” they announce with a sneer. There were groans and creaking of chairs as the latecomers announced that they were sitting down. Chaya takes the time to prepare her desk for an hour of monotonous notetaking. For the last 30 minutes of class, the students were left to their own devices. Now would be a good time to start packing away. Chaya would’ve if someone hadn’t slammed their hand on her desk. She looks up from the middle of stuffing a notebook in her bag to see a boy. His green eyes and lazily brushed hair indicated he was from the front of the classroom. He smiled down at Chaya and pointed a finger at her bag.

“Can I have the notes for today? I know you have them,” he drawled before holding up his own greasy notebook,” I’ll be quick, promise.”

Chaya internally cringed as the boy’s greasy hands explored her notebook. She can already see the distorted smudges of paper, despite no such thing actually occurring. He was just a kid, and a high schooler at that. Chaya knew he the boy had at least basic hygiene, but she couldn’t help but imagine the worst.

“I’m all done now, thanks again! See you tomorrow!” With a newly filled paper, the boy scampered off to meet up with his friends. Chaya was sure he hadn’t learned a single thing today.

She decided to assess the damage done after finishing her lunch. Chaya pushed what was left of her lunch tray to the side, towards the rest of the students sitting there. While flipping through, she noticed a few tears. They weren’t bad enough that her notes were at risk, but they were present nonetheless. Even when being given a gift, her classmates couldn’t be bothered to give anything back. Not even an inch of respect. She gingerly returns the notebook to it’s place in her bag. Now, she was left with nothing to do but explore her thoughts.

Or the internet.

She scrolls past pictures of those she saw everyday. Some girl got a dog. One boy she found particularly loud had a loved one die. Someone liked a photo that she liked too. After seconds of nonsensical scrolling, something new showed up. Instead of a random student, it was some sort of advertisement for a therapy of sorts. There were no details of how it worked, just the benefits. The image used calming blues and greens to symbolize their purpose. “Take this quick survey and be connected with a volunteer,” read the image with white words. Instead of moving on, Chaya decided to explore the page. It boasted anecdotes from other students like her. All of them were pleased with the progress they had made. She found the link to the survey and began filling it out.

The questions were all simple enough. She was to indicate how relatable a scenario was on a scale of 1 to 5. The first few covered such a broad scope of feelings; Chaya couldn’t see them as being helpful. Maybe the test was made to adapt, because the questions became more and more personal to her experiences. In less than half an hour, Chaya was finished. A small message popped up, telling her that “her personal volunteer would contact her soon.” She assumed that they would contact her through the app. She hadn’t given them any other way to contact her, after all. The closest was the screen name she provided at the beginning of the survey. By the time she was done, students were being ushered out of the cafeteria. Chaya slipped her phone back into her bag and prepared for the rest of the day of monotony.