He finishes speaking.
The room stays calm.
Something inside me does not.
There is heat in my ears.
My heart starts beating faster, without asking.
Something shifts inside me,
not loudly,
not visibly,
but enough to throw everything slightly off balance.
It feels as if the ground has moved,
and my body noticed before I did.
I want to leave.
Not somewhere specific.
Just away.
It feels urgent, but indistinct,
like a signal without a message.
I don't try to name it.
It doesn't occur to me that it might have a name.
I only know that sitting still suddenly takes effort.
That listening feels impossible.
That my body is preparing for something my mind has not been invited into.
I speak once.
My words sound sharper than I expected,
flatter than what is happening inside me.
The teacher responds.
Slowly.
From a distance.
Something closes.
I stop listening.
Whatever this is, it stays inside.
Unsorted.
Unexamined.
I don't ask what I'm feeling.
I don't ask why.
At the time, it doesn't seem important to know.
Feelings, I believe,
happen —
they overwhelm,
and then they pass.
They are endured, not understood.
And certainly not explained.
So I sit there,
my body alert,
my thoughts quiet,
carrying something I don't yet know how to hold,
assuming, without question,
that this is a solitary experience.