Naghmana Yusuf| English Teacher, Grade V
It arrived quietly, like most news does these days. An announcement. A notification. A few simple words that change everything: “Classes will be online starting tomorrow.” I read it once. Then again. And suddenly, the evening feels different.
Outside, it’s just another night—the same streetlights. The same quiet hum of the neighborhood is settling in. But inside my mind, a thousand thoughts are already racing toward tomorrow morning. Tonight, desks are still in rows. The whiteboard still holds traces of today’s lesson. The chairs wait patiently, exactly where students left them. By tomorrow, all of it will vanish into pixels. I think about them—my students. Are they checking their phones right now, seeing the same message? Are they excited? Relieved? A little lost? Some are probably already planning to join class from bed, camera off, hoping I won’t notice. Others are quietly relieved—online classes mean no crowded hallways, no early morning rush. And some, I know, are silently disappointed. They liked the classroom. The noise. The belonging.
Tonight, we are all in between. Between physical and virtual. Between routine and uncertainty. Between a classroom that still exists and one that will soon live inside a screen. I should be preparing. Slides to tweak. Links to double-check. A thousand small logistics that never existed before online teaching became part of our vocabulary. But instead, I find myself just… sitting here. Letting the moment settle. Tomorrow morning, I’ll log in. They’ll log in. Some will forget to mute. Some will forget to unmute. Someone’s internet will freeze at the worst possible moment.
Someone else will type something hilarious in the chat, and we’ll all pretend we didn’t see it—but we’ll smile anyway. The magic will still happen. Just differently. But tonight? Tonight is the pause between two worlds. The quiet before the grid lights up. The moment when the classroom is still exactly where it belongs—waiting for students who won’t walk through its door tomorrow.
I close my eyes and smile a little. Whether it’s through walls or Wi-Fi, they’ll still be there. And so will I. Tomorrow, the classroom disappears.
But learning? Learning just finds another way.