What's behind the doors

The hallway

was empty,

which meant

everyone was

somewhere else,

behind closed doors,

contained,

kept.

A piece of paper

lay on the floor—

white, folded once—

and no one

was there

to see it,

to wonder

what it said,

to pick it up.

The quiet

wasn't peaceful.

It was the quiet

of holding your breath,

of waiting,

of thirty kids

sitting still

in rooms

where the air

doesn't move,

where the only sound

is the teacher's voice

explaining something

that half of them

aren't listening to.

I could hear

the fluorescent lights

humming.

That's what the quiet

sounds like—

the sound

of the building

itself,

of the infrastructure

keeping everyone

in place.

I wanted to

pick up the paper,

read it,

understand

what had been

lost or dropped,

what meant something

to someone

enough to write it down

and then leave it

here.

But I didn't.

I walked past,

and the paper

stayed where it was,

unwitnessed,

unread,

just another thing

that happens

when people

are busy

being where

they're supposed to be.