Session 1
Class dismissed. The scrape of chairs on linoleum. Bags zipped. Laughter. Gossip. Pairs of students leaving together, talking, eating, joking. All of them, side by side, paired, bonded. And me. Alone.
I let out a slow sigh. Tired. Always tired. Not from walking or carrying books. Not even from the usual homework or lectures. Tired from existing. From being here. From having to pretend everything is normal. Pretend I belong. Pretend that I care.
New school. New country. Everything strange. The language mostly familiar, but twisted in accents I couldn't fully place. The smells—different, heavier somehow—chemicals from cleaners mixed with the faint, lingering odor of fried foods from the cafeteria. New faces, new rules, new hierarchies. No one I knew. Not really. Except some distant relatives. Barely counted. Barely mattered.
I slung my bag over one shoulder and stepped out into the hall. The sound of chatter followed me down the corridor. I could feel the weight of eyes on me, though I doubted anyone actually noticed. I was invisible, or I wanted to be. Invisible felt safe. Safe was… relative. Sometimes I wondered if invisible and safe were even connected.
I remembered my first day here. Everything had been wrong. Wrong temperature, wrong light, wrong voices. I walked into the classroom and scanned the room, noting every detail—how the ceiling tiles were slightly askew, how the fluorescent lights flickered at irregular intervals, how the scent of cleaning spray mingled with the faint aroma of someone's lunch. The students stared at me for a moment, a flicker of curiosity—or judgment. I wasn't sure which. I learned quickly that it didn't matter. Observing was safer than reacting. Always safer.
Observe. That word circled in my mind. Observe. Adapt. Survive. Those had become my silent rules. I adapted fast, faster than anyone expected. Too fast, maybe. It wasn't pride—just necessity. A survival instinct. A methodical process that I could control. Some people drift into a place, floating like they belonged. I didn't. I anchored, rooted myself where it mattered. I watched. I remembered. Everything mattered. Everything was data.
By the time the lecture ended, the students started packing up their things, laughing and talking over each other. Some whispered, sharing secrets I wasn't meant to hear. Others shoved sandwiches into their bags, half-eaten, careless. A group at the back was laughing about something. I wasn't part of it. And I didn't need to be. I turned away and walked out, my shoes echoing softly against the polished floor.
Outside, the city welcomed me with its usual indifferent hum. Traffic, engines, distant horns, people rushing past, oblivious to me. I walked to the bus stop. The air was crisp, faintly chilly, carrying the scent of exhaust and wet concrete. I stood there, hands stuffed in my pockets, waiting. Minutes passed. I checked my watch. The bus should be here any second. I didn't mind waiting. Time moved slowly for me anyway, or maybe I just noticed it more.
The bus arrived, groaning and hissing like it resented the world as much as I did. The doors opened with a screech. I stepped inside, heading toward my usual seat at the very back, but before I could reach it, the driver released the brakes. The bus lurched forward abruptly. My feet slid. Instinctively, I grabbed the nearest rail, knuckles whitening. Heart ticking faster than usual, I twirled through the swaying bodies of other passengers, careful yet quick, finally landing in my seat. Shoulder pressed against the cold glass, head slouched, eyes half-closed.
People filtered in, noisy and oblivious. The chatter faded into the background, a dull roar I could tune out if I focused. I often focused too much. Observed too much. Remembered too much.
I closed my eyes. Tried to let the motion of the bus lull me, but memories stirred instead. My arrival here. That first strange week. The feeling of everything being wrong, alien. The first day I had walked these streets, each step uncertain, each face a blur. Everything unfamiliar. Everything new. And yet, I had adapted. Not easily. Not naturally. But I had adapted.
That adaptation—there was something unsettling about it. Too quick. Too smooth. I had expected to struggle, to falter. To show some vulnerability. But I hadn't. I had observed, memorized, absorbed. Learned the schedules, the unspoken rules, the subtle hierarchies that dictated who mattered and who didn't. And I had slipped in, unnoticed, or at least mostly unnoticed. Too unnoticed. That had stuck with me. I wondered why. Some things—some instincts—tell you when something is off. But I ignored them. I always ignored them.
Outside the bus window, the city blurred. Lights smeared across the glass like streaks of memory. Shadows stretched long in the early evening. I watched people moving in pairs, groups. Smiling, laughing. And me. Alone. Always alone. But always watching. Observing. Learning. Remembering. Some details seemed trivial, meaningless. But nothing was meaningless. Not really. Every expression, every word, every action—data.
I thought about the students laughing in the hall earlier. Did they laugh at me? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it doesn't matter. I smiled faintly to myself, a smirk almost imperceptible. Absurd. Everything absurd. The rules, the people, the routines. And me. Observing it all. Waiting. Calculating. Learning.
And then there were the fleeting thoughts. The ones that shouldn't be there. A flicker of something dark. Impulse. Anger. Curiosity. Hunger. For control, for chaos, for reaction. I pushed them aside. Not yet. Patience. Observation first. But some things linger. Some things follow you. And I've learned to notice them. To remember. To wait.
By the time the bus pulled up at my stop, the streets were quieter. Shadows deepened. Streetlights flickered. I stepped off the bus, feeling the chill bite through my jacket. The quiet of the neighborhood wrapped around me. Houses stood silent, windows dark. I walked home slowly, unnoticed. Invisible. Safe. And yet… aware.
Safe was relative. Invisible was temporary. And I had learned that being too visible—or too careless—could cost you everything. Even a memory. Even a chance. Even yourself.
Home came into view. The familiar walls, the faint smell of cooking from the kitchen, the muted sounds of relatives in another room. I paused at the gate, watched the shadows shift under the streetlight. Everything normal. And yet, not normal. Never normal. Never the same as it was before. Never the same as I remembered. Never as I wanted it to be.
I entered the house. Removed my jacket. Sat by the window for a moment, watching the night outside. Observing, remembering, thinking. About everything. About everyone. About me. Some thoughts I let linger. Some I pushed away. But nothing disappeared. Not really. Not ever.
And so it began. The first day, the first bus ride, the first moment in this new life. Observing. Adapting. Remembering. Waiting. Because some things, some instincts, never let you forget. And some things… will follow you forever.
Session End.