SFTM Academy.
A classroom of characters.
Proud and embarrassed in equal measure.

Portraits.
Some meet your gaze.
Some look away.
Some smile. Some forget to.
One is already halfway out the door.
A blink missed. A laugh that slipped out.

The Head Teacher — composed, patient, quietly in charge.
The Sports Teacher — rugby shirt, sneakers, stopwatch around neck.
The Favourite — perfect posture, too-bright smile.
The Loud One — collar popped, mid-eye-roll, chewing gum, already bored.
The Quiet One — there, but not.
The Cool One — effortless, unbothered, always winning.
The Anxious One — sleeves pulled tight, nails bitten.
The Artist — sleeves rolled with purpose, paint under nails, embodying the idea of the dreamer.
The Joker — laughing as the shutter clicks.
The Sporty One — knees grazed, sleeves rolled, shoes scuffed.

The Late One — out of breath, hair hastily combed, t-shirt inside out, bag slung on the floor.

Uniforms softened by time.
Borrowed from siblings, handed down.
Sweatshirts layered under blazers.
Knits over polos. Mesh under team shirts.
Gym shorts with button-ups.
Shirts half-tucked.
A badge falling off.

Uneven. Undone. Unfinished.
Each garment almost right.
Crocheted charms. Notebook sketches.
Ticket stubs and gum wrappers in pockets.
Names scratched into desks.
Drawings on backs.

Not nostalgia.
You were there — before you knew who you were becoming.
You, before it all made sense.