Last year—
the halls hum softly,
air thick with echoes of laughter,
its warmth now cold
against the walls.
The floor creaks beneath my steps,
a slow rhythm,
as if the ground remembers–
the weight of years pressing down
makes everything heavier.
Seasons blend together,
windows fogged with the blur of time.
There’s no heat of summer,
no crisp winter air—
just a muted grey sky
that clings to the air like fog,
filling my lungs
with a dampness I can’t shake.
Time slips through my fingers
like dust,
gritty and fine,
dragging me forward
but holding me back,
all at once.
I linger at the lockers,
my fingers brushing the cool metal,
trying to catch the scent of old papers,
pencil shavings,
eraser crumbs scattered on the floor.
Every slam of a locker door
echoes in my chest,
familiar yet distant,
like something I’ve heard
a hundred times before
but only just remembered.
The sharp ring of the bell
cuts through the air,
piercing,
but fades as quickly as it comes,
leaving only silence.
It all blurs,
the sounds, the smells, the touch—
everything softening
at the edges,
except for the ache
that sharpens with each passing moment,
holding onto me,
as everything else
fades too soon,
always too soon.
By: Sophia Xia
