A Teacher I know, part one, from written but never sent

There is a teacher I know. Someone who walks into the classroom like he’s stepped into a memory, quiet and worn, yet still showing up. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, his voice carries more weight than volume. His words are deliberate, as if each one has been measured before release. There is something about the way he stands, hands folded like he’s holding something in. Something too personal, too heavy, too old to name. He looks at his students as if he sees all of them at once, past their jokes, past their laziness, into something deeper. No one notices the way he glances at the clock when the room grows too loud. No one notices how he lingers by the window, not for the view, but for the silence. There is a teacher I know who stays late when the hallways are empty, surrounded by crumpled papers and untouched chairs. He grades quietly, with a patience that feels almost unreal. There’s a sadness in the way he moves, like someone trying to find meaning in the same lesson plan he’s used for years. He teaches with this kind of quiet hope, like maybe this time, someone will understand. He never says much about himself. He gives pieces away in passing comments, stories buried in metaphors, feelings folded into analysis. His eyes flicker when someone brings up loss. His mouth pauses before certain names. Most students don’t notice. They don’t care to. They laugh too loud, speak too quickly, and forget he is there once the bell rings. He becomes invisible the moment he stops speaking.