Before The Window Fogs Again

By Sanjana Shome

I sit at the same desk every day.

Third row. Second from the back.

Right by the window with the broken latch, where the glass fogs even when it’s not cold.

Sometimes it whistles — soft and constant — like a quiet hum no one hears but me.

No one ever asks to trade.

It’s been like that as long as I can remember.

My scarf is part of me now — bright red, knotted twice, always snug.

I never take it off. Not even during summer.

No one says anything about it. Not even the teachers.

Sometimes it feels too tight. But not in a bad way.

I don’t remember when I started wearing it.

Only that it feels wrong to take it off.

Mornings are the worst.

I wake to the same squeak — the creak above my head.

It comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

By the time I sit up, it’s gone.

But it leaves something behind in the room.

Like a held breath.

Sometimes I wake already standing.

People don’t really talk to me.

They speak around me. Over me.

I’ve stopped trying to jump into conversations.

Even the teachers forget I’m there sometimes.

They call roll and pause at the name before mine, then skip to the next.

I say “present” anyway.

It’s just something I do.

Like brushing my teeth. Or packing my bag.

At lunch, I sit near the vending machines by the back stairwell.

It’s quieter there. Colder, too.

One of the girls from class walked by once, holding her tray.

She glanced toward me, then shook her head and said to her friend,

“Let’s sit somewhere else.”

Maybe she doesn’t like the humming from the vending machine.

Or maybe she thought the seat was already taken.

It usually is.

The mirror in the girls’ bathroom has a crack running through it.

When I wash my hands, I catch my reflection behind the split.

Sometimes it doesn’t quite move the way I do.

There’s always a delay. Just a flicker.

I tell myself it’s the lighting.

Or my imagination.

It doesn’t really matter.

I don’t look in mirrors much anymore.

My family’s been quiet lately.

We eat dinner in silence.

Or maybe they eat earlier than me now — I’m not sure.

They never seem to look my way.

I tried asking my brother a question the other night,

but he just kept scrolling on his phone.

Maybe he didn’t hear me.

Or maybe I didn’t speak loud enough.

Maybe he’s tired.

My homework always seems to vanish.

I’ll leave it on the teacher’s desk after class, but the next day, there’s no grade.

Nothing marked.

I asked once, and she just blinked.

“Ok… I must’ve misplaced it.”

That was the end of that.

I must’ve misremembered.

It’s easy to do these days.

No one touches me. Not even by accident.

Not in the crowded hallways.

Not when passing papers.

They move around me without thinking.

Their feet seem to know where I am before their eyes do.

Today, the ceiling fan above my desk made a low noise.

A dragging, swaying sort of rhythm.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

I looked up, but it wasn’t moving.

Still, the sound echoed in my ears the rest of the day.

It reminded me of something.

Something heavy.

Something swinging.

Some mornings, I find dust on my desk.

Even though I sit there every day.

No one else ever touches it.

By afternoon, it’s always clean.

But on those mornings — dust.

Like it’s been left untouched for years.

No one will sit in my seat.

They walk past it like it's not there.

Once, someone reached toward it and shivered,

as if from a cold draft.

Even the janitor avoids my desk when he cleans.

He moves around it like it’s wet paint.

He once muttered something —

“they should have taken it down” —

while dusting the light fixtures.

But when I asked what he meant,

he blinked through me and kept walking.

I guess everyone’s just more sensitive to the cold than I am.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up again.

Tie my scarf.

Take my seat.

Third row. Second from the back.

Watch the world move around me.

Answering questions no one hears.

And maybe — just maybe — someone will remember to say my name.

Just once.

Before the window fogs again.

By Sanjana Shome