By the time I started high school, I’d already decided how it would end. 

I’d imagined the final day the way you might storyboard a coming-of-age movie: arms linked with friends down a fluorescent hallway; teachers pausing mid-lecture to say we’d made them proud, like something out of Mr. Feeny’s classroom from “Boy Meets World”; and some poetic full-circle moment — maybe returning a long-lost library book, or staring at the same clock I’d once watched as a freshman, willing it to move faster. There would be closure, I was sure. The door would shut softly behind us, and we’d walk into the next chapter, sun-kissed and self-assured.

Of course, that’s not quite how it happened.

Endings in real life are messier. There’s no swelling score, no narration to tie the threads. Instead, they’re a collection of small goodbyes: the last time I’d drive to school at 8:30 a.m. for an NHS, Rho Kappa, or editor meeting; the last time I’d get a text from Shivu saying “where r we meeting for brain break??”; the last time Sophie and I’d spend our lunch block in Mrs. Adair’s classroom. Or the last time I’d walk through the history and English hallways, smiling and saying “hi” to every teacher in the mornings and, without irony, saying “See you tomorrow!” in the afternoons.

We never really know when we’re doing something for the last time.

It’s strange, looking back. I spent four years learning how to format essays in MLA and respond to an ever-growing list of acronyms — DBQs, LEQs, SAQs, AAQs, EBQs, and whatever new Q College Board decided to throw at me next. I learned when to ask “Is this going to be graded?” and when to ask “Is this going to matter?” But nothing quite prepared me for the soft grief of leaving behind a place that, for all its flaws, shaped me in ways I’m only beginning to understand. 

There’s a kind of mythology around high school. Adults love to tell you that these are the best four years of your life. Or the worst. Or the fastest. Or the slowest. Depending on the day, they’re either the crucible or the cocoon. I think the truth is: high school is where the scaffolding goes up. It’s the place where you first try versions of yourself — versions you later discard, or carry forward like favorite coats.

I used to think high school would hand me some final version of myself: polished, complete, college-ready. But all it really gave me was motion. It gave me questions I’m still answering. It gave me moments where I fumbled and apologized and tried again. It gave me the slow, imperfect courage to say, “Here’s what I think,” and just as importantly, “Tell me what you see.”

And now I’m supposed to say goodbye.

But I’m not sure that’s the right word. Goodbye implies an ending. What I feel is more like an unfolding. I’m stepping away from this chapter, yes, but it doesn’t disappear behind me. I carry it. I carry the teacher who wrote that I “had a writing voice that’s almost impossible to teach” in my yearbook sophomore year. I carry the friend who left me origami cranes made from Post-its and little notes every time I saw her. I carry the morning announcements, the gym bleachers, and the walks to the car under pink skies. 

High school doesn’t vanish when you leave it. It imprints.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in four years of circling between the L400 hallway and Room 1400, it’s that none of this — none of the growth, the voice-finding, the stumbling forward — happened in isolation. High school didn’t hand me a finished product. But it handed me people. And for that, I owe more than a paragraph could ever hold.

So — thank you.

To every teacher I’ve had who made me feel seen, even when I was buried under sweatshirts and stress. You taught me that being known was different from being watched. You offered margin comments, quick glances of encouragement, and the occasional raised eyebrow that somehow said more than words. You believed in my ability to stretch beyond what I thought I could handle, whether that meant deciphering 1200 CE language or actually raising my hand in class.

To Mr. Burzumato: Thank you for teaching the best (and most challenging) class I’ve ever taken. AP World made history feel urgent, not distant. You challenged me to think in systems, patterns, and consequences, and you never watered it down. Whether it was Henry’s six wives, Catherine the Great, or Rasputin, your lectures were fast, detailed, and unfiltered — but always accessible. You never slowed down for us, but you made us want to catch up. Thank you for making me fall in love with history. Thank you for making the world feel bigger, more layered, and full of questions worth asking. 

Mrs. Curran: Thank you for making the hardest math I’ve ever done not just doable, but genuinely exciting. I’ve never been a “math person,” but AP Calculus changed that. I still don’t know how you made integrals feel less terrifying, but you did. And I’m so sad you’re retiring, mostly because you made a class I was dreading into one of my favorites, and future students won’t get to say that. Thank you for making math feel possible. And even a little bit joyful.

Ms. Adair, thank you for making your always-wonderful-smelling classroom a second home. While I’ve never officially had you as a teacher, you have taught me so much over the past three years. Thank you for always being there with calm, comfort, and exactly the kind of presence I didn’t know I needed. 

To my QOAT, Ms. Webb, you’re the funniest teacher I’ve ever had. I’m so grateful to have been your student for two years, and I’m going to miss your energy and enthusiasm for teaching so much. I’m forever proud to be your favorite velcro student!

Mr. Anderson, thank you for easily being one of the most caring teachers I’ve ever had. I remember coming to your room junior year anytime I was having an especially hard day because you always offered a sense of “everything’s going to be okay.” From your “Lord of the Flies” accents to field days in Newspaper, thank you for creating a space that was light, steady, and supportive. It all meant more than you probably know, and I’m incredibly grateful.

Lastly, Ms. Greiner, thank you for being the sweetest teacher  person I’ve ever met. Thank you for advising The Blaze for the first two years I was on staff, for cheering me on at any given time, and for responding to every single one of my silly and ridiculous texts. Thank you for being kind in every single moment, and for making our newsroom feel like a place where we were always supported and had a reason to show up. I’ve always said you’re Miss Honey in real life, and we’re all better for having known you. Thank you for being you. 

To the English and history departments: thank you for being my home base. My friends always knew that if they couldn’t find me, I was somewhere in one of your hallways — probably mid-conversation or mid-rant. Thank you for always letting me pop in, linger too long, and (occasionally) use your rooms as my excuse for skipping science. 

And finally, to The Blaze: I can’t believe this is the last piece I’ll ever write for you. For three years, Room 1400 has been where I’ve spent mornings, lunch blocks, and more evenings than I probably should have. Thank you for introducing me to my best friends, Shivu and Maya (Best Student vs. Staff 4EVER!). Thank you for all the little moments: when Maya grossed out the classroom with her blueberry popcorn; when Ms. Greiner wrote down iconic sayings heard around the room and put it on the quote wall; every single worknight that ended in laughter; and every second of chaos, almost-missed deadlines, interview blunders, and pizza slices that are now my favorite memories of high school.

I can’t believe I won’t ever be here at 10 p.m., panic-writing an Instagram blurb while Shivu edits pictures to post within an hour of covering graduation. I can’t believe I won’t ever sing the national anthem with Maya while Tanishka and Rohan pitch a piece to Ms. Greiner again. I can’t believe I won’t go on another CSPA New York trip. I can’t believe I won’t spend another evening with Lia and Maya in 1400 prior to covering a band concert, singing Tangled and playing Taylor Swift Song Draft for hours on end.

 I don’t know how to explain what this class gave me, except to say that it made high school feel not just bearable, but meaningful. Thank you for being the place where I found my voice, my people, and a purpose that stretched far beyond a byline. Thank you for everything.

So.

I thought there would be a perfect final scene. Something cinematic. Neat. But it turns out the best endings don’t feel like endings at all. They feel like showing up to the same hallway for the thousandth time and realizing, finally, that it meant something. That you were building a life the whole time — even in the chaos, even in the ordinary. 

No, there was no moment when the music swelled or the camera panned out. Just this: a byline, a thank you, and an understanding that I wouldn’t trade any of it — not even the missed deadlines — for the kind of ending I used to imagine.

This one’s better.