Echoes of Laughter
Everything looks almost the same. The white walls, the mirror at the entrance, the seating area underneath it, the low hum of distant chatter. It’s all exactly how I left it. But I’m not one of the students anymore. Today, I’m just visiting.
I pass by classrooms I haven’t stepped into in months. I hear the recognizable sound of the bell, and for a moment, I expect to see my friends rushing out, laughing. Students jump up and rush out of the classroom. The race to the door has begun. I stay out of the way, standing back as the hallways fill. People squeeze past each other, pushing through the clusters of friends standing on the stairs and crowding the floors. But in just a few minutes, it will be quieter than ever.
As the last voices drift toward the front doors, the hallway settles into a silence so heavy it makes the air feel different. It’s strange, almost haunting, like the laughter and chaos have been vacuumed out of the space. I walk past the small classrooms, and memories start to rise up. I peek into the English room where I met my best friend. I pause by the room where we used to eat lunch, and I swear I can still hear my friends singing. It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight Risin' up to the challenge of our rival… I remember all the fun times we spent together, the jokes we shared, and I find myself laughing again.
Those memories fade behind me as I continue down the stairs, one step at a time, slowly approaching the basement. I remember the first time I walked in. It felt cold, and ugly. Nothing like the classrooms upstairs. The walls were too white, the tables old and scratched up, and the lockers that awful beige-brown color. It felt like an entirely different world, uninviting and heavy. But now, standing here again, I notice something different.
I pass a small seating area in the basement, the white tables blending in with the white wall and chairs, and continue to the next room. I see the same three old brown tables that have been here for the past five years. I see the two old microwaves next to the lockers. One of them still broken, just like always.
I turn the corner. The hallway is decorated with student art, and at the end, I see the familiar white door to the art room. A wave of warmth washes over me. Gently, I slip through the door. The room still looks the same. Four old brown tables, covered with paint, are scattered across the room. Chairs are randomly arranged. A few windows in the back are blocked by cars outside. The white walls are covered in student art, an attempt to fill the emptiness of the room. I see the small attached room with the art supplies. As always, it’s chaotic, supplies shoved wherever they’d fit.
As I look around the room I knew so well, I realize I no longer feel that uninviting, heavy atmosphere. Instead, I feel the warm and pleasant energy I used to associate only with the rooms upstairs. I can almost see and hear my friends again, as if they were right here with me.
I see one of them passing out slices of cucumbers and peppers from a small plastic container, insisting they’re crispier than the ones from the store nearby. I listen to their talk about breakfast. Is a fried egg the same as a sunny-side up? I hear the high-pitched scream of my best friend after being teased, followed by her endless worries. Was that too loud? Did someone hear? He didn’t hear, right? I see them hovering around a phone to watch a funny cat video, laughter spilling across the room.
The room is no longer cold and ugly like it used to be. It’s filled with something else now. Something better: joy, creativity, and belonging. This is the place where I laughed with my friends, where we connected, and where we grew together.
Maybe it was never the room that changed, but me.
