Class got cancelled.
Rain splatters on the empty sidewalk,
books snap shut,
pens roll back into bags,
a murmur fills the halls—
then nothing,
just the silence of unscripted minutes,
hours we did not know we had.
A text comes through:
"Professor's not coming,"
and in an instant,
plans peel away like leaves from trees,
unfolding into something softer,
a pause that was never on the schedule.
Some people stay,
grab a coffee, fill their cups with stories
they did not think to tell before,
laughter spilling in warm waves
under bright, flickering lights.
Some wander home,
footsteps slowing on the walk back,
wondering what else they might let go of
when no one is looking.
They listen to the world spin softly,
as if it has only just started
its orbit around their lives.
We live like time is measured in the things we do,
but every so often,
time becomes the things we do not do,
the days that fall into our laps,
the conversations we almost did not have,
the moments we did not plan.
Class got cancelled.
The lesson is this:
sometimes, the world unfolds
when we let go of what we expect.
