WILL GRAHAM

Will’s classroom was shrouded in silence, the bustling of fleeing students fading the further they went away. The lights were dimmed, due to Will’s own choice. Ordinarily, the lack of brightness calmed his headaches. So far, that reprieve was not yet granted. He didn’t look quite awake either, eyes closed with the rest of his body completely unmoved. He was certainly awake, though he wasn’t exactly present.

His mind was drifting from scenario to scenario—never truly lingering on one before jumping to another. Lately, he’d begun to recognize the mundanity of his daily life. Wake up, go to work, come home, sleep, repeat. His routine is only occasionally broken by the sight of a stray dog wandering the road, or by an intervention with a failing student.

He’d also began to realize just how starved he was. Not of food, no, but of touch.

The last time Will had even brushed past another person had faded in his mind—the recollection too far away to even remember how the pressure felt. The only contact he got was from the fabric of his clothes, and the weight of a fishing pole in his hands on the weekends. He normally felt the brush of dog fur under his fingertips, but never of human hair. His own touch became an unsuitable substitute, his calloused fingers trailing up his forearm as he stared into nothing.

He wondered how long he would have to wait before another person came into his life. He wondered if there would be another person at all, or if he’d be stuck feeling like this. The thought alone was unsettling, and it caused him to shudder.