The room is filled with people, a few awkward glances towards me, and a strong thought that this must be a mistake. “I probably didn’t hear my name,” I tell myself. But, just as the feeling had begun for me, everyone else in the room is back to normal.
The hum of the air conditioner on the surprisingly warm April morning, and the tip tap of white, dusty keyboards have returned. The harsh artificial lighting clashes with the bit of sun coming in from the streaky windows. It reflects against the white brick walls, and back into the room, hitting the metallic plaques along the way. At this moment, they feel useless.
Seeing the ever-slowly-changing red clock tell me that I have twelve minutes means enough time to take a break. Before walking into the empty hallway, I receive a smile from a friend filled not only with support but a hidden amount of pity.
Although I had always felt at home in this room, I knew I needed to walk the halls, to open the door at the bottom of the stairs and get just a little fresh air in my lungs before returning. I feel my face heat up as my eyes try to fill themselves, but can’t let it happen. I put on a stronger face and walk back into the classroom, pretending I had just gone to the bathroom.
Even just a week later, I wasn’t so distressed. I had before felt lost and that I wouldn’t be a key part of the yearbook because I didn’t get appointed to the editorial board. Despite this, I was back in my yearbook room, happy again to be there.