Aaron arrived on campus earlier than usual, hoping the quiet morning would give him a head start. It didn’t. The moment he stepped through the staff entrance, he could feel the chaos building—voices echoing down the hallway, students already lined up outside classrooms, an unmistakable tension hanging in the air like weather about to break.

He dropped his bag at his desk and powered on his computer. Three new admin emails. Two reminders for overdue grade submissions. One request to supervise lunch duty for a colleague who had called in sick.

He hadn’t even taken off his jacket.

He rubbed the back of his neck before opening the first email. *Weekly performance reports due by noon.* The second: *Parent inquiry regarding college prep expectations.* The third: *Mandatory staff check-in after school.*

He exhaled, slow and tight.

“Morning,” said Claire, appearing at his doorway with a binder hugged to her chest. Her hair was tied up messily—last-minute, like she’d rushed through the morning the way most teachers did.

“Hey,” Aaron said. “Everything alright?”

“Sort of.” She stepped inside. “My third-period class had a blowup yesterday. Two students. It got… loud. I have to write up an incident report, but I’m drowning. Any chance you can help me review it?”

Aaron wanted to say yes—he always wanted to help—but the clock was already ticking loud in his head. “Can we do it later today?”

Claire hesitated. “Sure. It can wait.” She tried to smile, but he caught the disappointment before she turned away.

He hated that he didn’t have more to give.

The first bell rang. Aaron forced himself up, gathered his notes, and headed to class.

By the time he arrived, students were already buzzing with restless energy. Someone was tossing a pencil across the room. Two students were arguing about whose turn it was to use the graphing calculator. A girl near the back had her hood pulled up over her headphones, pretending not to exist.

“Alright, settle down,” Aaron said, louder than he meant to. “We’re starting.”

The room didn’t fully quiet, but it softened enough for him to begin.

He walked through the lesson—linear systems, substitution, graphing intersections. Normally he could teach this in his sleep, but today he felt every second stretching thin. A boy in the front row kept tapping his pen. Another student whispered nonstop. Someone dropped their backpack loudly in the middle of his explanation.

He tried for patience, but the exhaustion from the last few weeks hung on him like a soaked jacket.

Halfway through class, a sudden shout erupted near the windows.

“Shut up, man—just shut up!”

Aaron’s heart lurched. Two boys stood at their desks, faces tense, shoulders squared. The rest of the room went quiet instantly, the way kids do when they sense real trouble.

“Both of you—outside,” Aaron said firmly.

They grumbled but followed him into the hallway. Aaron kept his voice low but steady, the way teachers learn to do when anger threatens to rise for all the wrong reasons.

“This stops now,” he said. “What’s going on?”

The boys argued over whose turn it was for a shared charger. A phone charger. Something so small it felt absurd.

But the anger in their voices sounded too familiar—pressure, fear, frustration, all looking for somewhere to land.

He resolved it, sent them back in, then leaned against the wall for a moment after they reentered. His pulse was louder than it should’ve been.

When the period ended, he sagged slightly behind his desk. The next class was already filtering in.

No break.

No breath.

No time.

By lunch, he was behind on grading and hadn’t touched the reports. He ate a protein bar at his desk while answering parent emails, most of them demanding, some borderline confrontational.

One message stood out:

*My son says your class is confusing. Are you planning on providing additional resources, or should we request reassignment?*

Aaron closed his eyes. He felt something tighten in his chest—not pain, but exhaustion wearing the mask of defeat.

A soft knock tapped on the doorframe.

“Aaron?” Claire stood there holding a stack of worksheets. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically.

“You don’t look okay.”

He forced a smile. “Just a busy day.”

Claire stepped inside. “If you need help with anything, I’m around. Don’t do everything alone.”

Something about the wording hit him strangely. Julia had said something similar once. And just like then, he felt a wave of guilt—because he knew he wasn’t alone, but he kept acting like he was.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

After she left, he turned back to his screen. The numbers blurred. His shoulders ached. He checked the time—still hours before the staff meeting.

He opened the gradebook. Then closed it again.

He pressed his palms against his eyes.

He could manage difficult days. He had before. But today felt like walking uphill in sand, every step sinking, every breath harder than the last.

His phone buzzed.

Julia.

*Thinking of you. Hope your day’s going okay.*

He stared at the message longer than he should have. Something deep in him softened—just enough for breath to come easier.

He typed back slowly.

*Rough day. I’ll tell you tonight.*

Her reply arrived seconds later.

*We’ll figure it out together.*

Aaron leaned back in his chair. For a moment, the noise of the school faded. The hallway sounds softened. The frustration in his chest eased.

He wasn’t fixed. The day wasn’t saved. The workload was still impossible.

But something inside him steadied.

When the bell rang for the next period, he pushed himself up, squared his shoulders, and walked back into the classroom—not lighter, but no longer sinking.

One step at a time. Just like everything else.