That got their attention.
“Write down the thing you’re carrying that is making it hard to breathe.”
Nobody moved at first.
Then a girl in the front whispered, “Like a secret?”
“Yes,” I said. “Or a fear. Or the thing you keep swallowing every day so nobody has to hear it.”
The room went still.
Even the boys in the back stopped performing for each other.
For ten straight minutes, all I heard was pencil scratching, sniffling, chairs creaking.
One student stared at the blank card so long I thought he wouldn’t write anything.
Then he bent over it like his life depended on it.
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