The afternoon dragged in a way the morning hadn't.
By afternoon, attention always starts wandering. The teacher's voice at the front of the room becomes something distant, filtered through a layer of something I can't name — slightly less clear. I sat with my pen stopped on the page, a line of notes half-finished beneath it, my mind circling the same thing it had been circling since the auditorium.
We keep moving forward because we never stop questioning everything around us. Without doubt, there is no breakthrough.
I couldn't explain why the line had stayed. It wasn't the kind of sentence designed to inspire — no loaded language, no theatrical finish. It felt more like a statement someone had lived with long enough that it had worn smooth, something said so many times it had become simply true. The man who said it hadn't performed it. He'd just placed it down.
"You're spacing out again."
Ashly's voice pulled me back. She was watching me with that half-suspicious, half-amused expression, pen tilted in my direction, tapping at the air.
"No I'm not."
"You are," she said, certain. "And it's not your regular spacing out either. It's the kind where your body's here but your brain left an hour ago."
I smiled and didn't argue. She held the look for another moment, then gave up, shrugged, and said, "You've always been like that sometimes."
By the time school ended, the sky hadn't fully darkened yet. The classroom lights were on, but the windows still held a strip of early evening gold, the kind that makes dusk feel like something in between. I packed up slowly, listening to the sounds of everyone else leaving — chairs, zippers, voices — until there was almost nothing left.
Ashly stood, stretched, and asked if I wanted to walk to the shops together. I shook my head and said I'd head straight home. She didn't press it — just waved and said, "See you tomorrow," and left.
When the door closed behind her, the room went quiet. Just me.
I picked up my bag and walked out into the corridor.
The corridor air was slightly cooler, with a faint circulation — a window open somewhere. The slanted evening light came through at intervals, cutting the floor into sections of light and shadow that shifted slowly behind me as I walked. A few students were still moving through, each heading somewhere, nobody stopping, footsteps layered on footsteps — the kind of noise that belongs to something just about to disperse.
"Still thinking about the talk?"
The voice came from behind me. Steady, no particular inflection. I stopped and turned.
Noah was standing a short distance away, hands in his pockets — looking like he'd just come out of a classroom, or like he'd been waiting there for a while. I couldn't tell.
"What?"
"The one in the auditorium." He walked a few steps closer and stopped at a distance that was neither close nor far. "You were paying attention."
I didn't deny it. I just waited.
"Why did you think I'd care?" I asked.
He actually considered it — not a pause to reach for an answer, but genuine thought. "Because you didn't treat it like a joke," he said. "Most people laughed it off and forgot about it before they reached the door. But you came out still trying to figure out if it was true."
I said nothing. He'd been too accurate. There was nothing obvious to say back to that.
"So?"
"So I thought you might want to know more."
Someone passed through the corridor. The footsteps faded quickly. The space settled back into quiet. I glanced down at my hand on my bag strap — fingers tightening, then releasing.
"You said earlier you might be able to help me."
"Yes."
"Help with what?"
He was quiet for a moment, looking at me — weighing something, or waiting for me to finish forming the question properly.
"Not now," he said.
"When?"
"When you're sure you want to."
His tone wasn't pushing. It wasn't trying to persuade anyone. It felt more like someone who had already seen the ending, who was just standing there waiting for it to arrive on its own.
I frowned slightly. "You're talking like I'll definitely say yes."
He gave a small, shallow smile. "Not definitely. I just don't think you'll stay at 'I don't know' forever."
I said nothing.
After he left, I stayed in the corridor for a moment. I didn't move right away.
That sentence sat in my mind. You won't stay at "I don't know." I had no idea what gave him the right to say that — whether it was a reading of me or a form of persuasion. But it had landed on something I hadn't clearly acknowledged even to myself. I kept telling myself I didn't know. Kept telling myself I hadn't decided. But somewhere inside that "I don't know" — part of it had already become "I want to." I just hadn't admitted it.
The corridor light dimmed slightly as the sky outside continued to fall.
I started walking toward the stairwell, my footsteps steady and clear on the floor.
At the top of the stairs, I paused.
The melody surfaced again in my mind — without warning, without any trigger. Just there, suddenly.
Hm — Hmhm — Hm — Hm — Hmhm —
I stood there and let it play. I didn't rush to press it down. I just stood, listening as it moved through my mind, one note at a time, until it slowly faded. Only when it was gone did I keep walking.
It was only a dream.
But the sound never really left.