Elara
The remains of a sleepless night clung to my eyelids like coarse sand. Every blink was a friction-filled labor, a stinging reminder of the hours I’d spent staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the ceiling fan rotate in a rhythmic, suffocating dance.
The pulse in my temples acted as a relentless hammer, striking the inner walls of my skull with a dull, agonizing beat.
I leaned against a concrete pillar in the school corridor. The paint was peeling in jagged flakes, revealing the grey, unyielding stone beneath. It felt like a mirror to my own state—the polished facade of "Ms. Elara" was cracking, showing the crumbling mess I was becoming.
Around me, the morning recess was a chaotic symphony of high-pitched screams and the rhythmic slapping of sneakers against the dusty f
