It all made sense.
It all made perfect sense to me now. Everything I had been trying to figure out, all the scattered thoughts, the pieces of a puzzle that never seemed to fit — it clicked into place like the final, missing shard. A strange sense of clarity washed over me, like a fog lifting from my mind. I stood there, almost breathless, as the realization took root, its truth echoing in the quiet air around me.
"Changra, what are you doing?"
The voice broke through my reverie, sharp and clear, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned my head slightly, still feeling the weight of my newfound understanding settle deep within me. It was a woman's voice — high-pitched, almost delicate but tinged with concern. I could hear the subtle rustling of her movements, probably as she stepped closer.
"Changra?" she repeated, her tone now laced with confusion and a hint of urgency. Her
voice was familiar, but it wasn't the same as it had been before — softer, quieter, as though something had shifted between us.
I hesitated, not sure how to answer. Could I tell her? Could I explain what I had just realized? Or was it something I had to carry on my own, this truth that now swirled in the air like a storm ready to break?
I open my eyes. Shit.
It was Mrs. Holly, standing right in front of me, her face as close as a shadow. Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, were boring into me with an intensity that felt like she was looking straight through me. I could feel her gaze scraping against my skin, probing, digging deeper, not giving me a chance to breathe or even gather my thoughts. It was like she could read every single hidden thought I had, and I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that she already knew more than I wanted to admit.
Why is she staring at me like this?
The silence between us stretched out, heavy and suffocating. I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt under her scrutiny, the weight of her gaze pushing me further into my chair. My mind scrambled, trying to piece together what had just happened. Had I zoned out again? Was I caught in the act of daydreaming, or worse, sleeping in her class for the umpteenth time? I couldn't remember.
"...Yes?" I ask shakily, my voice cracking in the middle like it was a question in itself. Did I do something wrong? The panic started to rise in my chest. I never knew what to expect when Mrs. Holly gave me that look — the one that made my stomach twist in knots.
She didn't answer immediately, her eyes still locked onto mine, narrowing slightly. The seconds felt like they stretched into eternity as the tension in the air grew thicker. Then, the words I feared came.
"Were you just sleeping in my class? Again?"
I could tell by the tone of her voice how disappointed she was. It wasn't just annoyance this time, but something deeper — a quiet, almost resigned disappointment that settled between us like an invisible wall. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, my hands suddenly clammy as I instinctively looked away, unable to meet her gaze any longer.
But as the words sank in, a strange realization flickered through my mind, cutting through the haze of my panic. No. That wasn't it. I hadn't been sleeping this time. I wasn't even zoning out. I finally understood it. It wasn't my exhaustion making me drift away, it was something else, something I couldn't quite name yet, but I felt it all around me now. A tension, a shift in the air, a weight pressing on my chest.
"No ma'am. I was thinking. I understand it now." I say, smiling at her with all the confidence I can muster. The kind of smile that's supposed to make it seem like I've got everything under control, even if my insides are doing somersaults. "I think I can answer the question this time."
Mrs. Holly doesn't even blink, just tilts her head slightly, giving me that "I'm watching you" look. "Okay then. Then what is the difference between a micropenis and a normal one?" she asks, as if we're not in a classroom full of teenage eyes, but rather in some kind of... well, awkward sex ed seminar.
I freeze. The words hit me like a brick. "The fuck?" I look around frantically, scanning the room for any sign that this is a joke or a prank, but no. This is real. And this is definitely not math class. I'm pretty sure my brain is doing a very public meltdown, but all I can focus on is the one terrifying question echoing in my head.
Did she know? Did Mrs. Holly somehow find out about my… you know, situation? The one that I've never, ever, under any circumstances, discussed? No. No chance, right? She couldn't possibly. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or just more terrified at the thought of her knowing. But now the pressure is on. I've been cornered, and I have to answer.
I try to breathe, keeping my voice steady, though it's shaky as hell. "I think it's about how they're used, not how they look." I say, immediately regretting it because my brain throws in a fun little image of all kinds of ridiculous scenarios where "usage" could be... well, misinterpreted.
I quickly try to cover myself. "I mean, like, how they're, uh, handled? You know, in real life situations." I want to crawl under the desk and just die already. My hands are sweaty, and I swear my face is five shades of red right now. Please, let this be a nightmare. If I wake up in some other dimension, that'd be fine. Actually, that would be ideal.
I glance around again. The class is staring at me. One kid in the back is trying not to laugh, which just makes the whole thing worse. Mrs. Holly stares at me for a moment longer than I can handle, her lips twitching into something that might be a smile, but it's probably just her usual "I've seen way worse" face.
"So, usage then?" she says, her tone dripping with amusement.
I nod, trying to keep it together. "Yes. Exactly. That's what I meant." But in my head, all I can think is: I am so screwed.
She gives me a stern look, and my stomach immediately drops. Oh no. She points towards the door. I know exactly what that gesture means. She wants me to head to the principal's office. Again. Great. I practically live there now. It's like my second home. I swear, if I spent any more time in there, they'd start offering me a loyalty card, like "Congratulations, you've been here 10 times! Here's a free detention!"
I drag myself to my feet, giving the door an involuntary glance. I'm convinced that the principal's office has seen more of me than my own bedroom at this point. At least I can count on Mr. Thompson to greet me with a grumble and a cup of coffee — which, honestly, is probably the closest thing I have to a friend at school.
As I walk, I try to remind myself that I've tried my absolute best in Mrs. Holly's class. Really, I have. But it's hard to focus when you're being asked to care about things that seem… well, a little silly. I mean, seriously, who needs to know the difference between a micropenis and a normal one in high school? When's the last time you saw a math problem like that on a test? The most useful thing I've learned so far is how to survive Mrs. Holly's bizarre pop quizzes — which, let's be honest, is the real skill I'm taking away from this experience.
But then, of course, I start thinking about how none of this will even matter in the future. When will I ever need to worry about this? I mean, I'm just trying to survive algebra, right? Why am I supposed to be so invested in this stuff? No girl is ever going to want a schlong as small as mine. The whole idea is honestly laughable. It's practically a joke that writes itself — just add some awkward teenage angst and a few bad puns, and I'm set for a stand-up career.
As I shuffle toward the door, I can't help but think about how much more practical it would be if we spent this time learning how to file taxes or how to actually impress someone with your skills, like, I dunno, talking about actual life stuff. But no. Instead, here I am, once again being marched toward the principal's office like the kid who somehow managed to break the rules without even realizing it. Good job, genius.
I'm almost halfway to the door when I glance back at Mrs. Holly, still standing there with that look — you know, the one that says, I'm disappointed in you, but I'm also too tired to deal with your nonsense today.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm her favorite student.
Honestly, if there were a "Most Likely to Get Sent to the Principal's Office" award, I'd have a whole trophy shelf by now. Mrs. Holly probably has a secret binder labeled "Changra's Special Collection" where she tracks all my trips to the office. It's practically a badge of honor at this point, or at least, that's what I tell myself to feel better. I'm a regular. If I showed up tomorrow with a cake and balloons, they might throw me a welcome-back party.
I make my way to Principal Thompson's office, already mentally preparing for the usual interrogation. As I walk down the hallway, feeling like I'm on my way to my inevitable doom, I hear a faint voice. It's not just the usual hallway noise, though. It's like a voice... calling to me? Or is it just the echoes of my own brain slowly losing it?
I knew it.
Knew what? That I have a small pecker? Or something else entirely? Did Mrs. Holly send some sort of psychic distress signal to the universe, calling attention to my "personal issues"? What even was that voice? Definitely wasn't coming from anyone around me. I mean, it's not like I'm in some bad sci-fi movie where people start hearing mysterious voices.
I glance around, confused. No one's there, though. Maybe I'm just hearing things. Maybe the stress is getting to me. Maybe I need to lay off the cafeteria's "mystery meat" for lunch. Yeah, it could be that.
Then the voice chimes in again, louder this time. I am.
Wait, what?
Okay, now this is definitely not normal. My brain is having a full-on existential crisis, and I can't tell if I'm in the middle of a metaphysical dilemma or if I'm just having some kind of hallucination due to a severe lack of sleep. Either way, it's freaking me out.
I blink a few times, trying to shake it off. Maybe I'm just overtired. Maybe I'm really just hearing things. The thought of having to explain to Principal Thompson that I'm hearing mysterious voices isn't exactly on my list of "things I want to do today."
Finally, I reach the door to Principal Thompson's office. I pause, take a deep breath (probably the most dramatic one of my life), and push the door open.
Thompson is already sitting at his desk, his tired eyes staring at me over the top of his glasses like he knew exactly what I was going to say. I wonder if he has a special folder for me too. "Ah, Changra. Right on time," he says, his voice dry, like he's too tired to even pretend to be shocked anymore.
I plop into the chair across from him, sinking into the uncomfortable seat that's definitely designed to make me feel like I'm about to be interrogated. And maybe I am. After all, it's not like I haven't had a few "episodes" in this office before.
"So, what is it this time?" he asks, flipping through a stack of papers, probably just stalling before he gets to the point. "Another classroom disruption?" He doesn't even look up.
I lean back, thinking about the voice. I am. What the heck does that even mean? With a small sigh, I launch into the full explanation of the situation to Mr. Thompson, trying to keep it as straightforward as possible. Of course, I leave out the whole "hearing mysterious voices in my head" part. The last thing I need is him sending me to a therapist or, worse, getting the whole school on some kind of watch list. I stick to the usual "I got caught zoning out again" story, which, let's be honest, is my go-to for these kinds of situations.
Mr. Thompson listens with that expression he gets — the one that says, I've heard this exact same story a hundred times, but I'm pretending to care for your sake. He leans back in his chair, tapping his pen on the desk like he's trying to solve some difficult math problem, but I know he's just mentally checking out of the conversation.
He finally looks up, deadpan. "Alright, Changra. Here's the deal. I'm going to send you home today. I've already called your mom, and she said it was fine for you to walk."
I blink, thrown off for a moment. Mom? Right, of course. She's always the one they call, isn't she? Never mind the fact that she's been dead for over 10 years. But hey, apparently she's still picking up the phone for Mr. Thompson, which is just a little weird. I guess in some alternate reality, she's a ghost who spends her time telling people it's fine for me to leave school. Or maybe it's just an auto-dialer and we're both in some kind of bizarre glitch in the universe. Either way, it doesn't really matter.
"Yes sir," I mumble, trying to push past the weirdness. I get up to leave, feeling like I'm a character in a bad sitcom, where the punchline is just me awkwardly walking out of yet another detour on the path to nowhere.
"Please behave on your way out," Mr. Thompson says, his voice slightly amused as if my rebellion could somehow be considered cute or quirky. He gives a little laugh — not a genuine one, but more like a tired I'm-just-gonna-say-this-because-I-should chuckle.
I grunt, offering the most unenthusiastic nod I can manage, and shuffle towards the door. What do you even say to that? "Oh sure, I'll be on my best behavior while I walk home alone with my thoughts and whatever the heck is going on in my head." Yeah, that'll go over well.
The moment I step out of the building, I can feel the weight of the day settle into my shoulders. The sun is out, but it feels like I'm walking through a fog. It's probably just the weirdness of the situation, or maybe I've just reached a new level of existential crisis that no one has warned me about.
The voice from earlier is still echoing in my mind. I am. It's like a broken record I can't shake off. No matter how many steps I take, no matter how hard I try to focus on the sound of my sneakers against the pavement, that damn voice is still there, ringing in my ears, like it's coming from a place I can't reach, a place I'm not supposed to understand.
As I walk home, I try to distract myself by thinking about anything else. Maybe I'll pick up a snack. Maybe I'll binge-watch something pointless. Anything to stop thinking about the voice. But every few steps, I hear it again. I am.
And honestly, at this point, I can't tell if I'm losing my mind or if the universe is just messing with me. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm going to need more than just a snack to make it through the day.
I make it about halfway home before hearing the voice again.
Watch out! it yells, louder and more insistent this time, like it's trying to reach through my skull and shake me out of my own stupor.
I jerk my head around, trying to locate where it's coming from, but all I can see are a few empty houses and the usual suburban blandness. Then, just as I start to doubt my own sanity, I hear it — the unmistakable screech of tires and the blaring horn of a truck, heading straight toward me.
Is this that cliche thing you see in movies and shows, where the protagonist gets hit by a truck just as they're starting to figure out their life? Really? Why me? Why is it always me? Maybe it's one of those cosmic jokes where the universe just picks some random kid to screw with. Maybe I was too good at avoiding consequences up until now, and now I'm about to pay the price. If I get hit by this truck, is there at least a slow-motion shot where I look all dramatic and cool?
Nah, probably not. I mean, I can't even pull off a good dramatic death scene.
I freeze, my heart pounding, and for a split second, it crosses my mind that maybe this is for the best. At least I wouldn't have to worry about class anymore — or all the stupid things that come with it. I wouldn't have to face Mrs. Holly's disappointed glare or try to explain myself to Principal Thompson for the hundredth time.
And honestly, it's not like I have a family to come back to, anyway. Just my aunt, who's basically been trying way too hard to be my mother since, well, since my actual mom passed away over a decade ago. It's like she took one parenting class and decided to go full-on Hallmark movie mom on me.
As the truck barrels closer, I start to wonder if I'm really okay with this. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to just... end it all right here. I mean, who needs this life when you've got a truck coming at you at full speed, right? At least I wouldn't have to put up with algebra anymore. Thank God.
And then, wham, it hits me.
I feel every single inch of it. The collision. The metal. The impact. It's like one of those slow-motion videos you see online, where a marshmallow or something soft gets squashed by a giant hammer. Only this time, it's not a marshmallow. It's me. It's like I've become a pancake, flattened into oblivion by the sheer force of a truck, only less cute and definitely not as fluffy.
I feel time stretch out, everything moving in slow motion — my brain is too confused to register actual pain. It's almost like I'm floating outside my body, watching this all unfold with some detached curiosity, like, Huh, I didn't expect it to feel quite like this.
But then, I think, maybe this is it. The end. At least I can go to sleep forever, without worrying about anything. No more classes, no more awkward encounters with Mrs. Holly or Principal Thompson. I'll be free.
Then, out of nowhere, the voice cuts through the haze again, like a lifeline in the middle of my own tragic movie scene.
Nah.