BY KATIE TIAN and ERIC ZIMMERMAN
Dear Senior Year,
We approached you with an armful of expectations of classes and concerts and friends and parties, of caffeine-fueled study sessions at 3 a.m., of promposals under the stars, of throwing our graduation caps into the air and catching them again. Expectations of opening college decisions with joys and regret, and of living with the fun and freshness of life after. Expectations of finally, finally being on our own.
You’ve been a whirlwind of change. From the fresh-fallen snow of winter to the cherry-red blossoms of spring, we’ve changed alongside you. We began the first day of school knowing it would be our last, yet not quite being able to grasp that conceptually. We greeted old friends, met new ones, learned new proofs of the Pythagorean theorem, and reveled in the fact that we were now at the top of the school.
The newness of senior year made it magical. We derived excitement from everything: walking to class with a textbook in each hand and music blasting in our ears; study dates at the local Starbucks; watching the leaves blush red in the fall; indulging in the Christmas season with its multicolored lights, glistening sprigs of mistletoe, and the same cheery carols on repeat.
The college application deadline approached hard and fast. We stressed over essays, promised to get them done early, and ended up submitting at 11:59 p.m. anyway. We spent countless nights and sleepless days until there it was, all the work of the past four years over, wrapped up neatly and tied with a bow. Our time was our own now, and that was for the better.
In the absence of deadlines, time seemed to stutter and slow to a stop. Some of us spent it with family. Some of us went out every weekend. Some of us learned to drive. Some of us stayed in bed all day. Some of us fostered new springtime romances. Most of us were struck with an intense and sudden wave of senioritis.
The newness of senior year had faded; the pictures seemed a little less shiny, the colors a little less bright. We realized your imperfections—how your halls are chaotic and oxygen-deprived, how your competitive spirit is fierce and unrelenting, how you impede on our privacy with your projects and homework and studying.
For many, this became a period of self-discovery. We realized which friendships were ones for life and which were ones of convenience. We mended long-lost relationships and spoke our true feelings because, for the most part, it didn’t matter anymore.
After the release of college decisions, some of us cried, others laughed, and we all felt the weight of the last four years lifted in one fell swoop. This was a feeling too big for words: that four years from now, we would all be in different places, some of us pursuing a master’s degree, others settling down with a family, others serving in the military. We realized that when we said goodbye this time, we would mean it.
We’ll walk across the stage decked out in blue and gold, we’ll throw our caps into the air and catch them again, we’ll make speeches about the highs and lows of high school like every coming-of-age movie. In ten years, we’ll meet at our reunion and talk about all the stupid things we used to care about. We’ll realize the world is so much bigger than what we can hold in the palms of our hands.
Senior year, you amazed us, disappointed us and challenged us in all the best and worst ways. You transformed us from blank slates to colorful mosaics of the people we’ve met. You gifted us with unforgettable memories and midlife crises at the ripe age of 18.
If we wanted to be uncomplicated, we would’ve said, “Thank you.” But that doesn’t seem quite enough, so we took the time to write this into a letter instead.
With love,
Katie and Eric