It was 7.30 a.m. I’m late. My nerves were screaming for me to rush, I’ve to be there for the interview. I’m so screwed. I parked my car at the usual spot of the school, where nobody liked to park.

Frantically shutting down the car, turning off the engines, putting the shades to the windscreen to negate the sunlight from burning into the leather seats. I grabbed all of the essentials and hopped out of the car. Late by 5 minutes… I sprinted for the waiting room.

Bursting into the room where the seniors were giving some prep talk to the other pupils who were eager for the interview. I seeped into the waiting room, diverting sardonic stares right into my soul, shrugging myself into a seat at the front of the room.

My palms were sweaty, fidgety, heart pumped several beats faster, the bated breath severed my collected demeanor. I did not pay attention, I did not dress-up well, I was messed up. “I will call your name, one by one.”

“Jonathan!” a lanky guy in suit and tie strolled casually into the room, slightly loosening his collar, popping his knuckles, licked the side of his lips, with his gelled hair, “Cammi!” another suit and tie, austerely worn by a petite girl, she swept her hair to one side, exposing her flamboyant look. I observed their minutiae actions, to suppress my anxiety.

One by one, lesser by lesser, I felt uneasy, I felt my rib cage bursting into pieces. The cold air was seeping into my bones, I was apprehensive, frigid,”John!” Me. A chill was sent down my spine, waking me up. The wait was over, the interview clocked, I superseded.

Waiting Room

Craving for more? Down below:
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Raising Your Voice
INfiltrator
Meeting Her
Buried Rose

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