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The exam for the class you never attended has begun.

Your pencil dissolves into salt water as you grip it. The questions writhe across the page. You realise with growing dread that somehow everyone can tell.

The lecturer — who has your mother’s voice but a stranger’s face — announces that late entries will be served up again tomorrow. Every answer you write has already been written by someone else, somewhere, better.

The exam for the class you never attended has begun.

Your teeth begin to crumble like old chalk. Someone points at you and declares your thoughts unoriginal, derivative, borrowed from cleverer minds. A spotlight follows you, harsh and unforgiving.

The clock on the wall has no numbers. You try to speak but realise you’ve forgotten how your own voice sounds. The words that come out belong to someone else entirely — someone funnier, smarter, more worthy of attention. The exam paper grows longer.

The exam for the class you never attended has begun, again.

Your reflection in the window shows someone you don’t recognise, signing their name to your thoughts. The fluorescent lights hum a tune you almost remember. You discover that everyone else finished hours ago, leaving behind only the echo of their brilliance.

Behind you, someone laughs at a joke you wish you’d thought of first. The taste of chalk lingers on your tongue. Someone else has surely dreamed this dream before you, and better.

The exam for the class you never attended has begun, will begin, is always beginning.