common

the crease in my laptop has become wrinkly,

like the edge of a notebook.

the surface of each key is marked in the tip of my finger,

letters scattered across their edges.

as my eyes begin to shimmer

from the bright light pushing against my pupil,

my hands fall down and i slump into my seat.

my body begins to shut down,

but my eyes stay wide open– looking.

the words stare back at me.

words that are meant to reflect.

in 650 words,

i was meant to summarize every aspect of who i was.

as the words glared at me,

i found myself asking the same questions as the prompts i first saw 6 months ago.

the clock ticks behind me in an insistent tempo,

counting down the seconds i have left.

it reads numbers that are too blurry for me to understand,

so i’ve learned to listen to the counts.

my heart stiffens with the familiarity.

i was already a day older.

the coffee in my cup had long dried

by the time the words finally seemed to be sufficient.

as i began to pack my notebooks and laptop,

i saw someone in the corner of my eye.

like a shimmer of light,

it was another person.

they were hunched over their laptop,

and the maturity in their frantic typing and solemn gaze caused me to pause.

i realized they were there for the same reason i was.

and i had never felt so common.

Author: Ayako Kiyota

Editors: Charlotte Y., Luna Y.

Image source: Yuliia Kucherenko, Unsplash