:Chemistry Spotlight
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the classroom windows, falling in streaks across the desks. Shraddha mam had just started explaining the next chemical reaction, and pencils scratched across notebooks. I was halfway through balancing an equation, sneaking glances around the room.
Ayush leaned toward me quietly. "Hey, think you'll survive this one, or are we doomed to fail again?"
I chuckled softly. "Depends… will Tanmay and Aryan distract everyone again?"
Tanmay grinned, whispering to Aryan, "Bet Honey won't say a word this time… too busy drawing or overthinking."
Aryan smirked. "Nah, he talks more than you think. Just gotta catch him at the right moment."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Watch me."
We laughed quietly, the small talk keeping the tension low. I glanced toward the corner of the room and saw her—Priyanshi—sitting quietly, pencil moving in her notebook, completely absorbed. There was something in her posture, the way she avoided eye contact, that tugged at a memory buried deep inside me. Ninth grade Honey—the anxious, introverted version of myself—echoed faintly in her presence. It was subtle, fleeting, but I recognized it immediately.
I shook my head, letting the thought pass. "Focus, Honey," I muttered to myself. "Don't get lost in someone else's silence."
Just as I returned to my notes, Shraddha mam's voice rang sharply across the room.
"Honey! Stand up!"
My pencil froze. Heart thumping, I rose slowly, feeling every eye on me.
"Yes, mam?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.
"Explain this equation," she said, pointing to the board. "Balance it, and identify the cation and anion."
I recited carefully, step by step. "The balanced equation is… sodium reacts with chlorine to form sodium chloride. The cation is sodium, and the anion is chloride."
She nodded, satisfied. "Good. Make sure you understand why this works, not just memorizing it."
I sank back into my seat, exhaling quietly. Tanmay whistled softly. "Whoa… that was smooth. Didn't see that coming."
Ayush nudged me. "See? Observation isn't useless after all."
I smiled faintly, glancing again at Priyanshi. She remained focused, unaware of me watching, and I felt that familiar tug of old anxiety—recognition, empathy, and the echo of who I used to be. But unlike the past, it didn't control me anymore. I could notice, reflect, and still be present in the room, part of the chatter, part of the class, without letting fear take over.
The bell rang again, and we moved to the English classroom for the 9th period. Mr. Verma—though everyone called him Pinglaaa—was already at the front, opening the textbook.
"Good afternoon, class," he said, his voice calm. "Today, we'll read a poem titled My Mother at Her Sixties. Follow along carefully, and think about the emotions the poet conveys."
I slid into my usual spot at the back, Ayush beside me. Tanmay, Aryan, Puneet, and the others settled in, some whispering quietly, some flipping through their notebooks.
Pinglaaa began reading the poem slowly, his voice carrying across the room. I watched subtle reactions: a smile here, a frown there, a classmate whispering something to another.
Tanmay nudged Aryan and whispered, "Bro, does Mom really look like that in the poem or is it just sad vibes?"
Aryan chuckled softly. "It's sad vibes, man. You're supposed to feel it, not overthink the face."
I whispered to Ayush, "I like how the poet makes simple things feel… heavy, you know?"
Ayush nodded. "Yeah… makes you think about your own mom too."
Puneet rolled his eyes dramatically. "Ugh, mushy stuff. Can we get back to normal chaos now?"
I smiled faintly, shaking my head. Even amid jokes, the poem seemed to linger with some of us.
Pinglaaa paused and asked, "What do you think the poet means when she mentions her mother's hands?"
Tanmay whispered, "Hands? They probably mean… she's tired all the time or something."
Aryan snorted. "Or she's secretly a superhero. Deal with it."
I leaned back, quietly adding my thoughts to the notebook, not loudly debating but letting my pencil scribble what I felt. The room hummed with small whispers, soft laughter, and the quiet scratching of pens.
By 3:00 pm, the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. Students packed their bags, joking and nudging each other on the way out. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked beside Ayush into the corridor, noticing the small gestures, laughter, and quiet habits—the tiny dramas that filled every day, waiting to unfold again tomorrow.