The rain falls on the cobblestones. A few drops get lost on the smooth surface of the windows. They roll like big tears down to the wooden crossbars, gnawed by the dust and pollution of the city.

A lamp flickers on the ceiling with a small noise, it crackles without anyone paying any unfortunate attention to it. On the blackboard, some barely distinct writings, which resemble a swarm of insects. The students all remain bent over, their heads in their notebooks or, for the luckiest, their computers. Some whisper about their weekend, as strange as it may seem, wonderful. Others occupy themselves by drawing in the margin of their notebooks some lines without assigned meaning. Some finish their night at the back of the class, hidden from the teacher's gaze, too caught up in reading his texts, understanding the meaning of zeugmas, prosopopoeias or asyndetons hidden between the lines. With a distracted ear, I perceive what surrounds me. Sometimes deafening noises, so heavy to carry.

I escape by turning my gaze to the tree that stands in the middle of the central courtyard. What a beautiful tree, robust, valiant, the trunk slender like an arrow towards the sky. The drops of water dare to land softly on the yellowed leaves, colored with fire, by autumn.

The wind makes the foliage nod and the leaves waltz in the air before abandoning them on the wet asphalt. Leaving them solitary and orphaned, in a word: abandoned.

What a monotonous day. I let out a sigh while picking up my pen again. I scribble on my sheet a few words without any particular meaning, insensitive to my eyes that the French teacher evokes before moving on to another subject. He writes this time in beautiful polite letters, with remarkable calligraphy, the few names of the great authors who preceded us. Dostoevsky, Kafka, Malraux, Gautier, so many great geniuses of words.

Nervously I twirl a lock of hair around my fingers. Pass a hand over my cheek. Tics that I can no longer do without.

Nervous, why? Perhaps at the sight of that pile of papers stored there like a trophy on the teacher's desk, mounted on an old platform. Papers that surely turn between two and twelve as always. I am certain of the words that the teacher will advance in returning them to us. Always the same mistakes, no effort, you must know the works, you do not know how to write and so on.

A certain ball rises in me, this ball so familiar, all integral to me. Hostile enemy that makes me bend at night in my bed, to tears and complaint. Alone in silence, because no one understands what is going on in my head.

I don't feel really comfortable. Especially when the teacher approached the desk to seize the papers as if it were a precious booty. As expected, negative remarks abound.

I lower my head, my hair hiding my face sometimes sensitive to tears. My pulse accelerates for no reason. It's just a grade. A damn number. Yet when I receive it I feel so much disappointment. Having worked so hard, to get a number between four and eight is, I must say, depressing.

I feel like I'm disappointing everyone. My parents in particular who already see me as a researcher at the ENS. I haven't taken the exams yet. But for them it's as if I was there.

I chose a literary preparatory class mainly to please them. It's far from my dream. I want to be a writer, or an illustrator, it's my dream, my secret. Fortunately, I can still cling to that so as not to sink.

- Elisabeth. thunders the teacher's voice, pulling me out of my thoughts. I straighten up and grab my paper, breathless.

- There is progress but it is not yet perfect. You need to refine your examples, and your method.

Eight and a half written in bloody red outside the grade box. I put my copy in front of me. The teacher walks away. I let out a sigh and run a hand through my hair. I didn't do too badly but it's still just as bad, even though he tells me there is progress I know it's not enough.

The bell rings, it's the end of the day. I'm exhausted. Everyone gets up in a big hubbub. I pack up my papers, grab my bag and my umbrella. There are two hours left before returning to the dormitory. Most of the students have all left.

-Elisabeth, are you coming with us to the café? asks Charlotte, one of my few friends. She is blonde, slightly shorter than me, she has brown eyes tending towards black shades.

She is accompanied by Louise. Brunette just like me with a bob, brown eyes.

-Don't give me the excuse of revisions and all! We have the weekend for this time, and then you have plenty of time to do your homework tonight.

-All right, I'll come with you.

I have no more valid excuses to absent myself from outings like this one. Charlotte and Louise go ahead, I follow them dragging my feet a bit. We leave the high school. The café is at the bottom of the road at an intersection, it's the refuge of students like us. It's not too expensive so we can afford to come and have a drink here and work in our spare time. The place is very cosy, decorated with vegetation, photographs and other small trinkets.

A frog catches my eye, there is a pond not far away, but it's rare that small creatures of nature venture onto the road. It is green with small brown spots, it comes to hide under dead leaves.

As we arrive at the café, the rain intensifies. We are lucky.

Charlotte chooses a table at the back of the café, near a group from our class. I can feel their gaze pressing on me. Quite uncomfortable, I lower my head. The café is really noisy today and I admit I have a lot of trouble with noise, my hearing is rather sensitive and a minor noise like whistling or whispering can become parasites for me.

-Ladies, what can I serve you today? asks the waitress.

-A coffee and almond financiers. Says Charlotte. Louise asks for a hot chocolate.

-And for you? she asks, turning to me.

-A tea.

-Is that all?

-Yes thank you.

Charlotte and Louise discuss the people in the class, their specialty is to talk about the countless rumors that infiltrate the ranks of the class. I don't participate, I just listen.

The smell of sweets fills the place, giving it a pleasant charm. My gaze gets lost on the people, of all ages, who occupy the place on this dark October day.

The waitress comes back with our drinks. I thank her.

Charlotte shares with us the little cakes she took. It's good to eat a little, the canteen is not great at the moment. It's maybe me, I don't know. I must say that I often have a lump in my stomach at mealtime. Sometimes, often in the evening, I just want to let myself slide against a wall, curl up on myself. Cry. Yes cry, all the tears of my body for a good shot. Evacuate these negative feelings, until my eyes are too dry to shed a single tear, that they are dry like an arid desert. Many people say that crying is useless, a waste of time dedicated to children. I affirm the contrary, and I proclaim it on all the roofs, well especially in silence, that crying frees us from a burden that we could have carried all day long.

I pour sugar into the tea, before stirring the amber drink to dilute the sugar. I find that it has a pretty color, which reminds me of many things. The amber eyes of my cat, Gustave in particular, or the color of those butterflies whose name I can't remember. Those whose wings pull on a pleasant orange or amber color.

I bring the cup to my lips after letting the liquid cool down. How sweet it is to feel this sugary liquid against your taste buds. These are little moments like this that I appreciate, allowing myself for a certain moment to burst out laughing with my two friends.

-Would you like to go to the cinema, Saturday afternoon? After the duty. proposes Louise.

-What movie? asks Charlotte before swallowing one of the cakes

-I don't know. It's a proposal.

-In itself why not, we could see at the last moment! What do you think Elie?

-Well, yes. It could be quite interesting as an outing.

-I saw that they were showing a thriller, we could try, if you're interested. Adds Louise.

-I'll let you know, tomorrow. I declared then looking at my watch. I had to do something before going back to the dormitory. I'll join you later.

- See you later. declares Charlotte.

I get up, pick up my bag and pay.

Outside, it has stopped raining, leaving a ray of sunshine to sneak between the masses of clouds in white and gray shades.

I have to make a hook at the bookstore to buy paper and ink. We have a large consumption. I must say with thirteen or fourteen pages to write for each duty, I can say that I go through double copies.

I walk along a cobblestone alley to get to the city center, finally in the old town. The houses are quite rustic. I like to sometimes walk the streets and alleys of the city after class to relax before resuming my classes, put them in files and learn them. At least try to learn them because fatigue and laziness take me, I can't escape it like many students I think.

The bookstore stationery is run by Madame Michelle, a lady rather in shape for her age.

( The École Normale Supérieure (ENS) is a type of state-funded higher education institution in France. A portion of the students, admitted through a highly selective competitive examination process, are French civil servants and are known as normaliens. The ENS also offer master's degrees and can be compared to "Advanced Study Institutes". They represent the highest level of education in research-training in the French university system. )