My pencils always felt like they were judging me, lying scattered across the worn wood of my desk like tiny skeletons. The other kids laughed as they scribbled notes with their vibrant markers, but not me – I was stuck in the era of the humble pencil, desperately cling to the comfort of a No. 2. Ms. Patel droned on about algebra, her words slipping past me like sand between fingers, while the bell above the classroom door clanged out a reminder: we were almost free. The pencil in my hand felt like it was trembling, its yellow tip digging into my palm as I clutched it tightly.
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