I came for paperwork

I came for paperwork.

Second period, the office said,

like that still meant something to me,

and it did.

The hallway was empty

the way a church is empty—

not silent but pressurized.

Thirty kids behind every closed door,

breathing, shifting, clicking pens,

and the sound of all that held back

made the air feel thick.

A backpack slumped outside room 114,

unzipped, a water bottle

tipped on its side.

Someone got called out

or wandered off or just

left a piece of themselves behind

the way you do at twelve.

Fluorescent lights ticked above me.

I used to own this feeling—

used to be one of thirty bodies

making the quiet

from the other side of the door.

Now I'm out here

and the silence doesn't want me.

It has new people.

I signed the forms. I left

through the side entrance

where the air was just air again,

not the held breath

of a hundred kids

learning how to sit still.