They sit quietly. Day after day. Test after test. Breakup after awkward science presentation.
They’re always there. Listening. Watching. Suffering through Algebra II just like the rest of us.
But what if desks could talk? 

The Front Row Overachiever Desk 

I’ve held up more AP Biology textbooks than I can count. My occupant is a straight-A machine who raises their hand before the teacher finishes the question. They color-code their notes. They apologize when they drop their pencil. 

I used to feel proud. Honored. But I haven’t seen the ceiling in years—I’m constantly hunched forward under pressure. And I swear, if I hear “Wait, can I get extra credit for this?” one more time, I might throw myself across the room. 

The Gum Graveyard Desk in the Back 

No one really looks back here. I’m more wall than desk now. My entire underside is a modern art piece in stale spearmint. People only sit here when they’re trying to disappear—hoodies up, earbuds in, eyes down. 

Sometimes I hear whispered gossip. Sometimes just silence. Once, someone cried on me during a pop quiz. I didn’t mind. I’ve been there. 

The Science Lab Desk with Burn Marks 

I’ve seen things. Real things. 

Explosions. Dissections. Soda volcanoes. 

Someone once tried to microwave a spoon on me during lunch. I’m not even in the cafeteria. 

My surface is scarred with mystery liquids and Bunsen burner blisters. I used to be pristine. Now I’m part of the experiment. 

The Detention Desk 

I don’t face the window like the others. I face the wall. There’s no sunlight here, only simmering teenage resentment. 

Everyone who sits here is quiet—but their hands aren’t. They scratch initials, inside jokes, and angry words into me with mechanical pencil tips. I hold a thousand regrets.
And one perfectly carved Among Us character. I’m not mad about it. 

The New Desk That’s Still Shiny 

I just got here. Still smell like fresh laminate. No scratches, no gum, no scribbles. People keep tapping their fingers on me like I’m a touchscreen. I am not. 

The others say it won’t last. That someday, someone will etch some phrase into me or balance a coffee on my corner until I’m stained forever.
But for now, I sparkle. And it’s terrifying. 

We walk in and out of classrooms without thinking twice. But they’re there. The desks. Holding us up. Literally.
So maybe next time, show them a little respect. Or at least don’t leave your gum underneath.