Maya
The fluorescent lights in the guidance office at Lincoln High School buzzed like angry hornets above my head as I sat at my cluttered desk, surrounded by student files, IEP reports, and half-empty coffee cups that had gone cold hours ago. It was 6:45 p.m., long after the final bell, and I was still here—because that’s what I did. I stayed. I fixed things. I carried everyone else’s weight until my own back threatened to snap.
My phone vibrated violently against the wooden desk for the fourth time in ten minutes. Daniel. Again. I knew what the message would say before I even looked.
I answered on speaker while typing notes on a senior who was spiraling after his mother’s overdose last week. “Daniel, I’m still at work. Can this wait?”
His voice came through sharp and frustrated, the
