Waiting for my name

The teacher’s voice is a low hum, working its way down the list. I watch the clock, my pen tapping a silent rhythm on the edge of my notebook. Everyone else is just a shape in their chair, waiting for the same thing.

The quiet before the question

My eyes drift from the whiteboard to the window, then back to the page in front of me. It’s covered in notes from today, a messy map of what we just went over. The girl two rows ahead has her head down, already looking at something else entirely.It’s in these pauses that everything from the lesson either sticks or starts to fade. The main idea is still there, but the little details are getting fuzzy around the edges. I can almost feel them slipping away, like trying to hold onto a handful of sand.

A different kind of list

Instead of worrying about the big test or the final grade, I started thinking about the small stuff. What if revision wasn't this huge, daunting task you had to schedule? What if it was just these tiny, repeatable things you could do in the margins of your day?I began keeping a different kind of list. Not of topics, but of actions. Simple, almost effortless things that just nudge the memory. It felt less like studying and more like just… remembering.

When the walk home is quiet

That’s when I run through one thing from class in my head, just the bare bones of it.

Right before I fall asleep

I let one key idea from the day play on a loop until it sticks.

Waiting for the bus

I try to explain a concept to myself, out loud but under my breath, like I'm telling a friend.The bell is about to ring, pulling us all back. My name wasn't called today, and that’s okay. The learning doesn't stop when the teacher stops talking. It’s in these little spaces we make for ourselves, in the quiet after the class ends.