The Space Between Classes

The hallway is a held breath.

At 9:15, when everyone is supposed to be

inside a room, behind a door,

conjugating verbs or learning about the Reconstruction,

the hallway belongs to no one.

The fluorescent lights hum their small electric song.

A classroom door window shows heads bent

toward a teacher's voice you can't quite hear—

just the muffled rhythm of instruction,

of information moving one direction.

This space between rooms is a kind of loneliness

that doesn't belong to any one person.

It's the loneliness of the building itself,

the hallway that exists only when it's empty,

only when everyone else is occupied,

contained,

told what to think about.

You could walk the length of it and hear nothing

but your own footsteps,

the hum,

the distant sound of someone's hand

raised in a classroom you're not in.

The hallway knows it's temporary.

In forty-five minutes, the doors will burst open

and it will fill with bodies and noise,

loud voices claiming it back.

But for now, it belongs to the quiet,

to the fluorescent hum,

to the feeling that you're the only one

who's noticed that time moves differently here—

slower,

heavier,

like the building is holding its breath too.