The Last Seat in the Back Row

Maya always sat in the last row of her classroom.

Not because she didn’t care — she cared too much.

But every time she raised her hand, her heart beat like a warning.

What if she got it wrong? What if they laughed?

So, she stayed quiet. Every. Single. Day.

And when the teacher handed back tests, Maya didn’t smile when she saw her A+.

She flipped the paper quietly, like it didn’t matter — even though it did.

No one knew she stayed up until 2 a.m. watching YouTube videos to teach herself algebra.

No one knew she hid notebooks filled with poems under her bed, afraid someone might read her dreams out loud.

One afternoon, the class had to give presentations.

Maya was last on the list — the last girl, in the last row, with the last chance.

She thought about pretending to be sick.

But then she thought of all the poems under her bed.

All the things she wanted to say and never did.

So, she walked up. With shaking hands, dry mouth, and knees that didn’t want to move.

And she spoke.

Her voice cracked. Her hands trembled. She forgot half her speech.

But for the first time, she didn’t run.

When she finished, the room was quiet — not because it was bad.

But because it was real.

The teacher clapped first. Then the whole class followed.

Even the loud kids in the middle row.

After school, someone walked up to her and said:

"Hey… that was brave. You’re actually kind of amazing."

That night, Maya sat in her room.

She didn’t cry — but she smiled like someone who just found out they could fly.

And the next day?

She still sat in the last row.

But this time, her hand went up first.