I see with my eyes the striking light that awaits me when I leave this room, the moments counted by each strike of the clock, and I can only wait for class to end. The words uttered tell me I can go home, and I rush outside, feeling the burning sensation of the sun on my forearm; I can almost see a haze. Every car that drives down this road blows its exasperating smoke into my face, feeling with the pores of my skin the dust that dirties it. I silently wait for a jeepney, trying to block out the persistent gibberish from the people trying to buy from food stalls—they have little Christmas lights hanging and short signs that show what they're selling. Then I see a face, a face that reminds me of the smell of graphite, wood chippings, and erasers. My 6th-grade teacher doesn't recognize me; have I grown too freakishly tall? Does my face no longer communicate the childish innocence I once had? My mind pauses as I think about what to do. Do I greet her or not? I should probably reintroduce myself—my name, my age, my address? I say hi, and she politely greets me as well.

Now we both wait for a jeepney to get home, my spine longing to undo this burden on my back. We both get on the same jeepney, and we sit on opposite ends. I lean on the hot metal, and my hand flinches from its burn; it leaves a brief blemish, like a soft blush on somebody's cheek. I put my chin on my bag and start smelling pencils again—the room is painted mint green, the air conditioner silently screeches from its lack of care, and there's gum on the roof. I write on my paper the questions on the green chalkboard and start answering. The chalk asks me if I know ½ of ¾, and I answer, scribbling it on my page. I solve each and every question with sheer confidence in my knowledge of elementary fractions. I see with my eyes the striking light that awaits me when I leave this room, the moments counted by each strike of the clock, but I want to stay a little longer. 

My classmate goes up to my teacher, holding his paper like there's something we shouldn't see. I see their mouths moving, but I can't hear. Suddenly he starts crying, his tears flowing down from his face to his paper, leaving a stain. I feel bad and try not to think about it. He silently tries to hide his tears, but it only makes it more obvious. I look around, and I'm the only one who sees; everybody's still answering. Eventually they both sit down, and I catch a quiet, solemn whisper, a plea not to cry, and an encouragement, though I have a hard time making out exactly what she’s saying.  I see her pointing at his paper, her eyes communicating a soft tenderness and grace to my classmate. He wipes his tears from his face and sits back down in his chair. Somebody sneezes, and suddenly I'm back on the jeepney; my stop is close. I sit in silence, my mind blank, and my ears play a quiet ringing. Eventually it's my stop and I greet my teacher goodbye. I walk home, but I don't feel my feet on the ground. I can only see what was on my mind, and I smirk remembering he got a higher score than me.