You could cut the tension with a knife. The artificial light in the classroom seems clinical and oppressive. The clouds clamour to get in through the window and the claustrophobic corner room seems cut off from the rest of the world. It feels like maybe you'll open the door and all you'll find are the yellow clouds, trapping you inside. The light inside tries to compete with the sky but it is clear it is losing. Sitting rigidly straight up, your stomach twists and turns, concealed by your expression of interest. But your mind couldn't be farther from the french grammar which you are noting down diligently. You're only praying that no one opens a window lest the clouds get in. Your breath feels restricted just thinking about it and you know that if they found but a crack in the wall they could envelope the room in their stormy dampness. You're asked a question by the teacher and your answer seems to come from a thousand miles away, down a long tunnel. The professor seems satisfied with your response although you couldn't hardly hear why you'd said. Your breath becomes even shallower, as you try to conserve the air in the room as you know there is none outside to replace it, eaten as it has been by the custard clouds. How can your classmates continue as normal? Making comments under their breath and asking the teacher to repeat things so they can copy down the notes. You've been taking notes but you can barely remember doing so, as if your hands are separate from you brain and they continue to copy from the board, scrawling the endings for the subjunctive tense onto some lined paper. The paper has a crease in the bottom right hand corner, where you had accidentally pushed it against your planner. You try to smooth it out but the line where it had been bent remains. The paper feels rough under your finger tips. The clouds press closer in, and begin to suck out air, making shallow breathing all the more vital. But you stay silent, worried that if you speak you'll be laughed at. The light flickers and you see the visual equivalent of the sound of nails on a chalk board. The vision curves and compresses into the middle, as if the room is bending under the strain of keeping the world out. The yellow light clouds the edge of your vision and you wonder if you'll ever escape from the stranded classroom. You turn over your paper to note down example sentences and the slide and rustle of paper resonates, reflecting the curved edges of the light.