The literature classroom smelled like old books and lemon-scented floor cleaner. Ryan slouched into his seat by the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the trees swaying outside. If there was one class he was mildly curious about, it was this one. But he wasn't going to show that—not here, not yet.
The teacher, a tall man with thick glasses and a slight southern drawl, was writing something on the board in messy, looping chalk:
"This is water."
—David Foster Wallace
Ryan's eyes flickered to the quote. He knew it well.
The teacher turned, smiling at the class. "Today, we're diving into Wallace's commencement speech and some excerpts from Infinite Jest. Let's talk about meaning. Let's talk about voice."
Ryan leaned back in his seat, trying not to look too interested.
A girl in the front row raised her hand. "He's kind of… cynical, right? Like, everything feels heavy. Almost too heavy."
Someone else added, "It's just depressing. I don't get the point."
Ryan scoffed under his breath. Quiet, but not quiet enough.
The classroom went still.
The teacher turned, a little grin forming beneath his mustache. "Something to share, Mr…?"
"Ryan," he said, straightening slightly. "Ryan Whitmore."
"Well, Ryan Whitmore—sounds like you have a different take."
Ryan hesitated. Eyes were on him now. He didn't want this. But then again… it was Wallace. If there was one thing he could talk about without faking it, it was this.
He shifted in his seat and said calmly, "He's not depressing. He's just honest. People don't like to hear how empty life can feel when you stop pretending it's perfect. Wallace didn't sugarcoat things. He just held up a mirror."
The room was quiet.
The teacher nodded, clearly impressed. "Go on."
Ryan shrugged. "He didn't write to impress people. He wrote to connect. And that takes guts. This is water isn't cynical—it's about awareness. About choice. You either float through life on autopilot, or you wake up and actually live it."
Silence.
Even Anna, sitting two rows ahead, had turned around slightly in her seat. Savannah glanced at her, then back at Ryan, eyebrows raised.
The teacher smiled. "Well said, Mr. Whitmore. Anyone care to challenge that?"
No one did.
Ryan sank back in his chair, a flicker of something warm stirring in his chest. He didn't like attention—but it felt good to speak like himself, even for just a moment.