Michelle’s online teaching schedule was a a busy one — and starkly normal for the day.
She had several English lessons scheduled. They happened to fall on National Online Learning Day.
Ironic.
National. Here she was, working, as usual.
She logged onto the lesson, as usual. Her student, Jamie, was a no-show.
Five minutes became seven. Then ten.
She sent a polite message reminding Jamie that the lesson was on, and waited.
The familiar little square area stayed vacant.
After another fifteen minutes, she was about to log on when —
Jamie entered the meeting.
The camera whirred. The usual bedroom background. Probably a bit too neat to be Jamie’s.
“Sorry, miss.”
Michelle began the comprehension lesson she had planned.
As usual.
But Jamie was NOT usual.
Jamie was especially —
Attentive.
His answers to various inferential-level questions were perfect.
His vocabulary that day was almost too precise —
For Jamie.
His summary was concise and properly paraphrased.
Michelle was pleased. Perhaps her teaching had somehow clicked.
Then, Jamie answered a difficult inference question instantly —
And correctly.
Michelle widened her eyes.
Now, this was a little worrying.
JAMIE.
Michelle asked another that was almost impossible to answer.
A perfect response.
Then, a recognisable ringtone.
Michelle’s mobile phone.
It was Jamie’s mother.
“Apologies! Jamie’s still at school. I forgot to let you know.”
Michelle traced the message carefully with her eyes —
Twice.
Then looked at the familiar student online.
Back at the message.
At school.
Back at the boy on screen.
That was one Jamie too many.
His on-screen face was perfectly stoic.
“Can we continue, Miss Michelle?”
With a swift flick of her cursor, Michelle clicked on Google Meet’s “Leave” button.
Her next student entered the virtual meeting room with Speedy Gonzalez cheek.
Ping. Another.
Ping. Another.
The participant count kept rising.
Her former students.
Trial students.
Students who went Missing in Action after two lessons.
And students —
Whose families still assumed that her lessons were for free.
Every square with an expectant face. Michelle knew each one.
Michelle had enough.
She clicked on “End Meeting for All.”
The faces stared, smiling.
Expectantly.
Eerily.
She clicked again.
And again.
And again.
A systems messaged finally appeared.
Host permission denied.
She turned the WIFI off.
It turned back on.
She closed her Google browser.
It reopened.
The faces continued to stare at her —
Smiling, with great expectation.
Then, an official notification
“Let’s celebrate National Online Learning Day! When no learner disappears from view!”
Then, a submission notification appeared in the Google Classroom.
And another.
And another.
It was so difficult to ask these students to curb their enthusiasm.
Essays.
Comprehension.
Vocabulary exercises.
Corrections they should have submitted months earlier.
Frantic buzzing.
The printer awoke with a choke—
Regurgitating sheets and sheets of paper.
The first submission.
The submission counter rose —
Frantically.
107.
224.
847.
Then —
ALL WORK MUST BE MARKED BEFORE THE HOST CAN LEAVE.
Michelle sat in her office, surrounded by a mountain of worksheets.
The same unexplainable faces stared at her from the screen.
No one moved.
Or disconnected.
Then one student raised a virtual hand.
Another followed.
Then another.
Soon, all the mystery participants in the room were up.
Michelle knew what was coming.
“Miss, what’s my grade?”
Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.
