Tell me I'm wrong.
Those heady milliseconds as you're invited into Breakout Room 3. You're hot under the proverbial collar of your depression hoodie, your heart is pounding.
Who will be waiting for you in this bloated cyberspace? A rugged, whimsical lothario who'll tell you you're on mute in the most dulcet tones known to Zoom? A Joseph Gordon-Levitt lookalike, miraculously new to the course, who'll sit in an erotic silence and contribute absolutely nothing?
You enter Room 3.
"Hey", you stutter into the digital silence.
Immediate action: mic off, camera off.
Swallow the embarrassment. They don't know who you are.
You sit once again in a sexual stupor, hearing only ragged breathing coming from a steamy blank icon labelled 'Jack'.
"What question are we meant to be doing?", croaks a voice into the darkness.
Finally, cameras start turning on. Faces are emerging into the acrid awkwardness of the room.
Aaaaand they're all butters.
"Guys my computer is crashing! Gotta go!"
By Sophie Peachey