You haven’t spoken since class started. You’re waiting for the right time, but the right time is hard to catch without the cues you had never given much thought before: eyes scanning a classroom and sticking on those with something to say, those who make contact. Here, you look from face to face, wondering if anyone is looking at you, slightly frustrated as all eyes look downwards at their own screens, doing just the same. You wonder where your own face appears on their screens, if anyone is looking towards you. You can feel your mind drifting in the heat of unseasonably warm sunlight, bouncing off the screen towards you, making your eyes water. You swivel the stack of books on which your laptop is balanced and shift slightly in the hard kitchen dining chair, into a patch of shade. The same few people have been speaking amongst themselves for a while now; it feels less wooden and unnatural to conduct a discussion here with just a few people. But when they fall silent, the empty air feels hollow and potent. The room is quiet for five, six seconds. Straightening your back against the cool wood of the chair, you poise yourself to speak, but the slight audio delay feels like a skipped beat in the pace of the conversation. You open your mouth to speak just as someone else does the same, and you each say half a stilted word and pause. Someone else resumes the discussion instead. You missed your chance; you retreat to your silent role of audience member, of non-participant. It comes naturally when nobody can look each other in the eye.
2021-10-18