45 DAYS - By Tenuli Perera

Written By: Tenuli Perera

Category: Short Stories

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the evocative short story "45 DAYS," Tenuli Perera delves into the nuanced experience of students facing the impending G.C.E. A/L Examination. This piece, submitted to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, captures the subtle shifts in atmosphere and emotion as students grapple with the pressures of transition. The narrative unfolds within the familiar yet transforming school environment, exploring themes of grief and change as constant companions during this pivotal period.

About the Work

"45 DAYS" captures the quiet transformation of a classroom and its students as they navigate the last days leading up to major exams. Through rich imagery and introspective narrative, Tenuli Perera explores the emotional weight of impending change. The story's mood is both somber and contemplative, painting a vivid picture of how roles, responsibilities, and relationships subtly shift in the face of looming milestones. It’s a poignant reflection on how grief accompanies change, living alongside those who are not quite ready to let go.

45 DAYS

Original Submission by Tenuli Perera

45 DAYS

By Tenuli Perera

(A/N- This short story was first written a few weeks before my G.C.E. A/L Examination as an answer to the mock paper’s given essay prompt “Grief is a shadow that learns to walk beside you, like a constant companion”.)

"45 DAYS TILL A/L EXAMS" is written across the whiteboard in thick blue marker. Under it, faint and refusing to fully disappear, the older blue marker still lingers: 100 DAYS. The two numbers overlap like time cannot decide which amount should make us panic more. There’s a certain hush when there’s only 100 days left to the biggest exam of our lives. Now it was all tears and concerns, as the days go on without giving us a single thought.

No one bothers to erase it properly. Not even enough time for that anymore.

"Ayubowan Madam"

The greetings come in fragments as we settle into the morning. Some arrive too loudly, some too late, some barely shaped at all. It is not that we don't know how to greet anymore. It is just that everything now passes through revision sheets, tuition timetables, and a strange kind of exhaustion that follows us even when we are sitting still.

Madam Nelum stands at the front with her life file, looking at us longer than she used to. Her gaze moves slowly across the room, pausing on empty desks that no one bothers to explain anymore. Then she exhales.

"You all..." she says, almost to herself, "still students, no?"

No one answers properly.

She walks a few steps forward and gestures loosely at the room, at the scattered books, the sparkly pen near a fallen chair, the half-open notebooks left like unfinished thoughts.

"At least keep the classroom clean. You are still in school. Exams or no exams, still school students."

Her tone is not anger. It is something more fragile. Tired care. A reminder that something still expects us to behave like we belong here, even if we have already started leaving in ways no one can officially mark.

We murmur an "okay madam" that does not fully become action. And she does not push it further. Because she understands too well. We are all only partially here now. I have not been at school properly for days. Revision classes, tuition, mock exams. My life now moves in parallel lines that barely touch this place anymore. When I return, I sit down and open my book and pretend it’s normal to flinch at the sight of the same words I had seen so many times. I try not to think about how everything is moving and changing so fast while I’m cramming facts that I have to explain in detail within a time limit.

But I cannot ignore it. Something has already changed inside the room without announcing itself.

It begins with her. The class monitor is still the class monitor. On paper. Her name still sits beside duties that once meant authority, structure, and control. But I remember the morning it stopped having a meaning. She came in as usual, hair tied back, the register book in her hand, bag slightly open from the overflowing pile of books in her bag. She stood at the front for a second longer than normal, not looking at anyone, just looking at the room she had been for with us for the year as an unfamiliar territory, a chaos that not even her leadership could tame.

Then she placed the register on the teacher's table. Not with the usual gentle thud. Not announced. Just placed. Like something being returned after being too heavy in her delicate hands. Then she walked back to her seat. That was it. No explanation followed. And strangely, none was asked for. The room adjusted around her silence the way it had learned to adjust to everything else now.

After that, she stopped standing in the mornings. Stopped calling names and rolling her eyes when her classmates teased or ignored her. Stopped managing her chaotic peers while being responsible. The role remained in theory, but not in action.

Now she sits near the dustbin at the back corner, her geography book open on her lap, turning pages slowly, not studying for discovery, but reading like it is the only thing that mattered, muttering how she was sure there’d be a question on that specific topic this time.

Sometimes I look at her and realise she is still doing school. Just not the version of school we are all pretending still exists in the same way. And I understand, without anyone saying it, that even assigned roles that were taken with courage and excitement, can quietly leave before people do.

That is where it begins. Not in absence. But in meaning slowly detaching from what continues. And it spreads without warning.

I hear it in conversations that sound normal at first:

"Which university are you thinking?"

"Colombo?"

"Kelaniya?"

"Peradeniya?"

"Private degree or government university?"

"Or a job after this?"

The questions are casual, but they are no longer innocent. They are people trying to speak about futures that they’re so sure of, maybe even determined to get, while standing inside a present that is already loosening its grip. Or maybe trying to scope out the competition.

Someone mentions going abroad. There is a pause. Then someone says, "Lucky".

No promise of seeing each other again.

No "keep in touch" that feels like belief.

Just acceptance of distance, said with such simplicity.

And I realise something unsettling. We are not only planning futures. We are silently rehearsing separations. Even empathy has started becoming shorter. No one says goodbye anymore. We simply begin speaking as though leaving is already understood.

I carry that thought with me for the rest of the day. It follows me from the corridor to the classroom, from the classroom to the tuition class, quiet enough to ignore but never far enough to leave.

I once asked about a student that always placed first in our class. "She won't come for a while. Probably studying at home. She’s a smart girl. She'll be fine."

No one asks anything more. There is no space left for questions that require emotional weight. Even concern has started becoming efficient.

And yet, outside our classroom, the school continues in ways that feel almost unfair. The Grade 10 students are rehearsing drama for provincial competitions in the auditorium, their voices rising and breaking and repeating lines. Laughter interrupts seriousness, seriousness interrupts laughter, and everything still feels alive in a way we are no longer fully inside.

Down the corridor, the choir room is full. Not almost full. Full. Sound layering over sound, imperfect harmonies held together by repetition, a teacher clapping rhythm like she is trying to hold time together before it slips too far away.

We are slipping away, but there’s no one to hold us anymore. We’re older now. More responsible.

I stop there for a moment longer than I should. Just listening. Because that sound belongs to a version of school that still believes time expands instead of collapsing. I am no longer part of that version. And I do not fully notice when I stop being part of it.

Once, I remember thinking arts students were lucky. Less pressure. Easier subjects. Then I remember a girl crying in the corridor, saying there was too much history left to remember, so many facts to explain, essays on topics that seem blown widely out of proportion (at least in our heads), work that never felt finished.

Nothing here was ever easy. We just learned to rank exhaustion instead of understanding it.

Back in our classroom, the monitor's absence has stopped being something we notice. It has become part of the structure, like an empty chair that quietly defines where presence used to be.

Madam Nelum moves between desks again, straightening a chair, picking up a fallen sheet, adjusting what she still can. She pauses near the whiteboard.

45 DAYS.

She looks at it. Then at us.

"You all still have to clean this room properly," she says again, softer now, but firm enough to carry meaning that is not just about cleanliness. "After exams also, you will still remember this place. Don't make it a memory of mess."

No one replies immediately. Then a few of us move. Not transformed. Just briefly reminded that we are still here.

She watches for a second longer, then steps back. And I realise even her frustration is care stretched thin enough to sound like something else.

We are all trying to function inside something that is already emotionally ending. Not suddenly. Not completely. But continuously, in ways we cannot pause.

45 DAYS stays on the white board. Blue marker. Slightly uneven. Slightly fading at the edges, like even the words are beginning to understand impermanence. No one erases it. We all know what it means now without needing to look.

There will be a last day. There will be exams. There will be results that decide what continues and what becomes something people only mention later, quickly, like it belonged to someone else.

But none of that has fully arrived yet.

We are still here. Still standing. Still saying "Ayubowan". Still half-listening. Still half-leaving.

The bell rings. We stand. Some rush out the door with their bags, some worship the teachers, some are still packing their bags absentmindedly after prayers. We move toward the door, chairs scraping softly behind us, like the room is trying to hold on for just a second longer than it is allowed to.

I glance back once. The whiteboard is still there.

"45 DAYS"

And for the first time, I understand it without resisting it.

Grief is not what waits at the end of things. It is what happens when you are still inside something that is already leaving you. It walks beside us quietly now.

Not ahead.

Not behind.

Just exactly at our pace.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the art of written expression. It invites participants from around the globe to share their original works in various categories, fostering a community of writers who contribute unique voices and perspectives. The competition stands as a beacon for literary creativity, encouraging both emerging and established writers to explore and express their craft.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Tenuli Perera for sharing the touching narrative "45 DAYS" with us. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this story offers a profound glimpse into the emotional landscape of students facing significant transitions. We appreciate Tenuli's contribution and look forward to witnessing more of their creative journey.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.