the present.

The bell rings, and the room fills with the sound of chairs scraping the floor as the class of students eagerly gets up to escape to recess – except for one student, who packs her bag, pushes back her chair, stands up, and readjusts her skirt with uncommon slowness, and who seems to hesitate about leaving the room.

The last hour she has paid the teacher her almost undivided attention to the content he was presenting. She has listened, almost as perfectly as usual. She has contributed and participated, almost to the same extent as usual. It is doubtful that he should have noticed any difference in her behaviour on this day compared to other days.

And yet, today is different.

Today she did not look up at him so much. And today she doodled more on the corners of her worksheets. She was more fidgety, shuffling this way and that in her chair. Sometimes she seemed more absent-minded (just not long enough for him to see), her gaze lost on the floor or to the view outside the window. She picked at her skin more violently, and under the table, her knee bounced up and down in nervous agitation without her even realising. She got more answers wrong – more careless errors in her work – and it took her longer to figure things out, longer than usual.

Today was – is – different.

Getting up from her chair without the same level of rush and excitement at her peers, she secretly gauges how long it will take him to make his way out of the room. She sees him collecting various papers, lining them up nicely to fit his much-used leather case. He erases the whiteboard, slips his pen in his shirt pocket, checks the air-con is switched off, and finally seems ready to get going. Just at this moment, she leaves the room, pretending not to be waiting for him. He still does not suspect a thing.

Now in the corridor, she takes baby steps away from the room, and as soon as she hears the sound of the door shutting, being locked, and his own footsteps approaching her, she turns on her heels.

“I – I have something for you,” she stammers as she swings her backpack around and sinks her hand in the front pocket to retrieve an oddly-shaped package, odiously wrapped in music manuscript paper. She stares at her gift, feeling her cheeks blush, not so much from this act of giving but from the sad appearance of the gift itself.

“Thank you.” He takes the gift from her slightly shaky hands. He does not seem to mind this thing that he has just received, for he knows not what lies within the paper, nor the feelings that led this young girl to accomplish this act. He gives her a smile, wishes her a good recess, and goes on with his day.

It may have been a normal day for him, but for her, today was different.