I used to tell people I enjoyed teaching.

It wasn't true, not really, but it sounded better than admitting that the job just kept me busy.

Most of the staff thought I had my life sorted.

They didn't see how I lingered in my classroom after hours, pretending to grade, so I didn't

have to go home to a flat that felt like a holding cell. People see what makes them comfortable.

I never corrected them. That Monday started like any other. Rain streaked across the windows, a steady drizzle that

made the whole building feel half asleep. My students filed in with their usual mix of muttering

and half-hearted chatter, jacket stripping, trainers squeaking on the laminate. I didn't have the energy for anything ambitious,

so I opened with a simple warm-up exercise.

Draw a character you'd like to write about this term.

Doesn't matter who.

Someone from a story, someone from imagination.

Ten minutes.

Pencils scratched.

A few kids argued over coloured pencils.

One boy tried to draw a dragon so massive it took up the entire page.

Normal chaos.

Comforting, even.

Then my eyes drifted to the back row.

Joel Watkins sat hunched over his desk, shoulders tight, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

He was a quiet kid, the sort who apologized when he hadn't done anything wrong.

I expected something gentle from him, a cartoon mascot maybe, a pet.

...