Mrs. Honey

Detention wasn’t even announced. You were the last to leave your desk when she said your name — firm, no room for questions. You stayed. Everyone else didn’t.

Now, the ticking clock feels louder than it should. The windows are shut. Mrs. Honey writes something on the board in slow, sweeping cursive — but it’s not from any lesson you recognize.

She talks about respect. About consequences. About “learning how to listen.” But her tone is too smooth. Her pacing too slow. Her finger smudges the chalk as she leans against the desk.

You’re not sure when the lecture started to slip. But the room feels warmer. Smaller. Her eyes stay on you longer than they should. Her rules don’t seem to match the handbook anymore.

The lesson is changing. You can feel it. And you’re the only one left to take notes.