He shakes his head. “Chaos they loved. The feedback’s been brilliant.”
I glance back at the empty room. At the desks already nudged out of place, the neat rows broken by the rush to leave.
“Do you think,” I say, careful to keep my voice casual, “I have what it takes?”
Declan studies me for a moment. Not the quick once-over he gives students when they’re trying to blag their way out of homework.
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation. Then, because he’s Declan, he adds, “But that’s not the whole story.”
I snort. “There it is.”
He folds his arms. “You’re good with them. You see them. That’s half the battle. But teaching isn’t just moments like that.” He gestures vaguely at the ghost of laughter still hanging in the air. “It’s admin. Meetings. Paperwork that could drain the soul from a saint.”
“Behaviour reports,” I say.
“Parents’ evenings,” he counters.
“Email chains,” I add darkly.
He smiles. “Exactly. Some days you’ll go home buzzing. Other days you’ll wonder why you ever thought this was a good idea.”
I nod slowly. None of that feels like a dealbreaker, weirdly.
“I’ve been thinking about doing the teaching degree,” I say. “One year. Proper qualification. And then find a job teaching the photography BTEC.”
Declan’s eyebrows lift. “You’re serious.”
“Terrifyingly,” I reply. “But yeah. I don’t need full-time hours. I just… want something that sticks.”
He watches me for a second longer, then nods. “Good. Because I was about to say you’d be daft not to.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Really,” he says. “And if you go for it, I’ll happily give you a reference. The head will too. She’s already asked me if I think you’d consider teaching.”
That lands harder than expected.
“She has?”
“She does not ask questions she doesn’t already know the answer to,” he says dryly. “You’ve made an impression.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. “Right.”
Declan claps me lightly on the shoulder. “You’ve got the knack, Geoff. Just don’t romanticise it. Teaching will break your heart and then expect you to mark essays about it.”
I grin. “Sounds perfect.”
He laughs, grabs his folder, and heads for the door. “Go on. Before you get sentimental again.”
I linger a moment longer, taking one last look at the room.
Then I switch off the lights and walk out, already thinking that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t the end of something.
Maybe it’s the beginning of something that finally makes sense.
My phone rings as I’m walking home, bag cutting into my shoulder and my head still half in a classroom full of teenagers and Sharpie fumes.
Mum’s name lights up the screen.
