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The late afternoon light cuts through the blinds of my office, painting stripes of gold across my shoulders. Dust floats, weightless, in the heavy air. The only sounds are the relentless tick of the clock and the scratch of my pen. I circle the score—89—and lean back, my spine protesting. My button-up pulls tight across my back as I stretch, and I adjust my glasses with a sigh. My planner lies open. March 23rd. The date hooks under my ribs and pulls. My hand goes to my hair, fingers combing through the short, pink strands. Then I'm standing, jacket in hand, moving without a plan through the deserted hallways. My steps are sure, urgent. Your office door gives under my push. A student jolts in the chair. My eyes find yours and hold. My voice is low, leaving no room. 'You're dismissed. I…