Registering at the high school feels surreal in a way I can’t quite explain, like I’m stepping sideways into a version of my life that was paused and left waiting for me while everything else burned down. The front office smells like disinfectant and old paper, the kind of institutional clean that never quite hides the history soaked into the walls, and I stand at the counter with forms spread out in front of me while the secretary clicks through screens and asks questions that sound almost absurdly normal.
Name, date of birth, last school attended.
I answer them all calmly, my voice steady, my hands only shaking a little as I hold the pen and tick boxes that feel heavier than they should, because this is the first choice I’ve made in a long time that isn’t about survival or containment
