Time.

It is such a complex concept. One hour can feel like either days or seconds, yet, time never changes, never alters. 

I have only been a true part of The Central Trend for a semester. However, it feels like mid-January, when I timidly walked into the classroom for the first time as a staff member, was years ago. I was petrified. There was a part of me—the part that overthinks everything—that thought I didn’t have a place in rooms 139/140. I believed that I would spend the final hour of my day isolated from the class’s festivities. 

But things have changed since then.

I have found my place—my corner, per se. That little corner consisted of the notorious brown couch, two small chairs pushed together to create a loveseat, a desk and a black chair with wheels that spin, two coffee tables (one white, one beige), and a small statue of a squirrel. 

Being in that corner is what I have looked forward to every single day. That corner is where everyone was shouting at me and making fun of the fact that—on frequent occasions—I have to cup my hands around my ears to hear. That corner is where we read my joke book I wrote in the seventh grade, with tears rolling down our cheeks, soaking our masks, as we laughed at how stupidly hilarious my jokes were. That corner is where two of the most amazing people I have ever met walked into my life, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude for them. 

Thanks to that corner, I can remember and cherish all that came when the school day concluded. Thanks to that corner, I can remember Allie and I waddling like terrified little ducklings behind Linus, who has much longer legs, as he navigates the intimidating school parking lot with ease. Thanks to that corner, I can remember Allie and I arguing over who gets “shotgun” for the day. Thanks to that corner, I can remember Allie and I frantically struggling to open and close the back door to the red minivan while getting screamed at by Linus to hurry so that we don’t get caught in the slow-moving, after-school traffic. Thanks to that corner, I will forever remember the dance routines we choreographed on our way home to “Wild Ones” by Sia and Flo Rida, “Young and Beautiful” by Lana Del Rey, and “Mr. Perfectly Fine” and “Love Story” by Taylor Swift.

But alas, time crept upon us all.

Before I knew it, I was back in that corner, crying as I listened to Mr. George speak about the six seniors that are leaving rooms 139/140. I sat in the spinning black chair for the rest of the hour, sulking as I truly realized the extent of my attachment issues. As the hour came to a close, everyone gathered around the notorious couch and waited their turn to take a picture, to freeze that moment, because time never stops moving; it never changes, never alters. 

And as time moved on, we walked—though Allie and I more waddled—to the red minivan as I proudly announced that I get “shotgun.” Allie struggled to open the door and got locked in when we stopped at the gas station. I queued up our accustomed lineup of songs, and we performed our choreographed dance routines.

I am not going to say that this is the last time we are going to do these things because that would be lying. I am going to be in that red minivan again. Allie and I are going to argue over “shotgun” and struggle to open the back door. We are all going to dance and sing together again. Like I was told as we pulled into my driveway and my tears began to resurface:

“This is not goodbye, it’s just see you later.”