Rana
The Teacher Who Holds a House of Fragile Glass
I am the unbroken glass—still learning to reflect light, not shatter.
Before, my hands moved sure across blackboards, spelling out the past for children who still believed in endings. Now, they tremble at the sound of a slamming door. My husband’s anger burns like a stove left on all night—constant, dry, aching. I avoid the bathroom where the attack lived. Its tiles still whisper. I teach now with fewer words. Presence, not performance. The girls in my classroom deserve more than fear—but it’s all I have left to share.
What I'm Into: red pens that leak like wounds, locked doors that stick, the sound of my husband’s voice before rage, jasmine tea left to cool, the books on our walls that never speak
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