Right now, I’m pressed up against the window in the hallway, leaning my ear even closer—math class is on quadratic function graphs, and the teacher’s chalk is scratching across the blackboard. Through the tiny gap in the window, every key point feels like it’s grown little legs, creeping straight into my head with the sound.
My teacher always says I’m “full of questions, like a little drill bit”—that’s why I became a regular in the hallway.
Rainy days are the best. The raindrops pitter-patter against the windowpane, actually making the teacher’s voice inside clearer. I can even pick up on key points from his tone—like when he talks about the “axis of symmetry formula,” he’ll suddenly slow down his voice, and I know I need to lock that in. When my deskmate runs out to find me after class, he’s shocked I even know “how to draw auxiliary lines.” I proudly point to my ear: “All by listening!”
Honestly, being sent to the hallway isn’t that bad. On sunny days, I can watch sparrows hopping around the playground; when the morning exercise music starts, I can nod along to the beat even from a few classrooms away. My only little annoyance? Sometimes the teacher suddenly asks a question—I’ll be itching to raise my hand out here, but all I can do is clench my fists and hold my breath for the classmates inside.
But guess what? Even stuck in the hallway, my curiosity about the world hasn’t faded a bit. When physics class talks about acoustics, I’ll stare at the tree shadows outside the window and wonder, “How does sound bend around walls?” When biology class mentions cells, I’ll start thinking, “What does the world look like under a microscope?” These dig-for-answers questions just pop into my head, no matter where I am.
