THOUGHTS OUT LOUD: INSIGHTS AND REFLECTIONS

Dear Diary,

This morning I almost slept through work. I dreaded leaving the cosy nest of my bedroom, the way the warm duvet clung to my legs like a familiar blanket. I pulled the covers up over my head, feeling like a child hoping for the kitchen door to swing open and my mother to serve freshly fried scones with raisins or a plate of chicken cutlets for breakfast. Even though Im celebrating my thirtyfifth birthday this year, the wish to be that beloved child still lingerswho doesnt want to feel treasured by mum?

My alarm proved a traitor today and stayed silent. Emily, my wife, had already roused herself and was getting our son Sam ready for nursery and our little girl Ellie for school.

Why didnt you wake me up? I asked, a touch hurt, expecting a kiss.

You have an alarm, David, Emily replied. Didnt it go off? You always get up with it. I thought maybe your timetable had shifted again, so I didnt want to disturb you and tried to keep the house as quiet as possible.

I dressed in a rush, declined the breakfast she offeredno time, I was already lateand blamed her for my tardiness. As she closed the door behind me, I caught a fragment of her muttering:

He always does thissleeps in, and Im the one at fault. He never kisses me goodbye. We havent really talked in months. Things have grown distant; somethings got to change. Im sad, this isnt the life we once dreamed of. He used to be so caring and cheerful. What happened to us?

I turned, unsure. Emily, what did you say? I asked.

Nothing, she said briskly, waving a loose strand of hair. Dont be late, love. Mrs. Margaret Clarke will not forgive you. See you later, dear, she added, blowing a quick kiss and smiling with just her lips as she stepped out.

At the bus stop I waited only a few minutes, glancing anxiously at my watch, a heavy sigh escaping me.

I must make it to my lesson, or the headmaster will have a field day. And Deputy Head Margaret will add fuel to the fireshes never liked me for some unknown reason, I thought, shuffling from foot to foot.

Outside it was damp and cold. Snowflakes drifted lazily, their fragile spirals falling without purpose, yet they did nothing to alter the bleak, blackandwhite pictures playing in my mind. My stomach growled, yearning for a simple cup of tea and a hastily sliced sandwich, but the real test was that I could suddenly hear other peoples thoughts. The voices slipped into my ears, filling my head the moment I glanced at someone.

They were fragmentscurses, sighs, accusations, occasional profanity. I tried to lower my gaze to the pavement, watching those elegant snowflakes perform brief, pointless pirouettes before they vanished. Were they executing a quadruple axel, a salchow, a rittberger, perhaps even a lutz? Did they achieve a perfect line, or were they merely flailing in a futile display for an indifferent audience? Who could possibly read their fleeting thoughts and tally them on paper without hands?

The constant noise in my head was overwhelming, like a clogged drain. I felt myself slipping toward madness, entertaining an impossible notion:

Can everyone read thoughts? This has never happened to me before. Am I ill? I havent drunk alcohol for days. Is this a condition that can be cured? Is it contagious? If I close my eyes, will the torment stop? Nonothing changes. The hateful thoughts keep echoing. Who did I cross on the road to earn this curse?

Just then the first electric bus arrived. People shuffled forward, vying for a spot. An elderly lady in a faded wool coat and a motheaten green scarf jabbed me in the back. I turned to see her, and her inner monologue burst into my mind:

These halfbaked intellectuals wandering about! Theyre good for nothinglet them sweep the streets instead of trying to teach our children! They should look at themselves first! Id love to hug a fool like this and weep, then strangle him so he wont read any more lofty books!

Excuse me? I called, startled.

Nothing, young man, she muttered, stepping into the bus without a glance.

I could not afford to miss my first class. I squeezed past the pushy old lady and pressed myself against the frosty bus doors. I had no cash for a taxi, so public transport was my only option, even if during rush hour the streets were swarmed with commuters in puffy jackets, all hurrying to their important appointments as if the world hinged on their punctuality.

On the step beside me stood one of my pupils, Lucy from Year10 B, chirping brightly, Good morning, Mr. Davies! I didnt see you sprinting for the bus.

Morning, Lucy, I replied, trying to avoid her thoughts. Do you think well be late for school?

She giggled in my head, Youre such a cool teachertall, handsome, blueeyed. I could fall for you if you werent so much older! Mrs. Clarke is always fussing over you, trying to flirt, but you never notice. She even swaps our lessons just to get at you. She looks at you like youre a furnace! I forced myself to stay focused.

Dont forget we have independent work today, I reminded her, hoping she wouldnt read me.

Ive got it ready, she said, leaping off the bus as we neared the school gates.

Outside the school, a woman approached me. It was Susan Parker, mother of my student Vlad, who had missed a month of lessons after breaking his ankle in a hospital.

Good morning, Mr. Davies, she began, eyes a little watery. Im sorry to delay you, but could you give Vlad some extra physics lessons? Either at our house or via Zoom. Hes fallen behind and it wont be free, of course.

I could hear her thoughts: Weve got no money left; everyones had the operation. I need to sort out a deal with Mrs. Clarke and the maths teacher, Margaret, and itll cost a fortune I cant afford. Maybe Ill clean the stairwells after work, hope the council grants us a small grant. Well survive, well manage.

I answered, No need for money, Susan. Ill send you my Zoom link tonight. Well catch up on algebra and geometry together. Hell be walking again soon enough.

She sniffed, Thank you! Please take these apples from our garden, she said, handing me a heavy bag.

I opened the sack to find bright red apples, their skins gleaming as if smiling back. My heart warmed; doing good truly feels rewarding.

In the school hall I greeted Mrs. Clarke. Though I tried not to listen, a voice pierced my mind: That cheeky, wordless boy! Ill give him a life of constant schedule changes. Hell stay a lowpaid teacher forever, his wife will leave him, and hell crawl in poverty. Ill make sure he never gets any extra duties or training.

I smiled weakly and entered my classroom. Fifteen minutes remained before the lesson. I rummaged through my bag, pulling out my phone, and discovered a small parcel tucked in a side pocketEmilys breakfast box, complete with a thermos of steaming coffee.

A miracle, indeed.

During the break, Svetlana, a pupil from Year8 A, slipped into the room. She avoided eye contact.

What do you want, Svet? I asked.

In her head I heard, What does Mrs. Clarke need? Unbutton my blouse, stand close to the teacher, then Ill promise a top grade.

I darted out of the room, bumping into Mrs. Clarke at the doorway. Those theatrics from the deputy cant go on forever, I thought, maybe its time to look for a new post.

After the third lesson, a former university mate called, offering me a position at a private academy where he was headmaster. I promised to think it over and planned to discuss it with Emily over coffee. My bank account had just been credited with my salaryenough to feel comfortably well off. Yet the true riches were my wife, my children, and the kindness I could still muster. Without those, Id be a hollow shell, incapable of love or empathy.

Leaving the school, a snowball thudded against my head. I brushed it off, knowing such trivialities mattered little. I still needed to make peace with Emily.

Just wish I could stop hearing other peoples thoughts, I mused, buying a bunch of white chrysanthemums at the tube station for her. I paid the florist, and for the first time today I didnt hear her inner voice.

How lucky I am, I thought, watching her run toward me, her smile bright, a stray lock of hair escaping her ponytail and falling over her eye. I gently tucked it back and pressed a kiss to the strand; it smelled of home and warmth.

The snowflakes continued their endless dance, performing their tiny aerial feats. Perhaps they, too, whispered a quiet reconciliation between Emily and mejust a gentle flutter of white wings, and everything seemed right again.