March is hell for seniors. Practically every college—your next-four-year’s fate—releases their admission decisions by the end of the month, at some point in March.

Between fighting senioritis to write journals for English and waiting with bated breath every day to see if today’s the day a college will send out an email saying “an update has been made to your portal,” there’s barely any room to breathe. Simply listening to my peers talk about guesses for when the UCs will release their decisions, or yield protection, or people’s commitments fills me with unending dread, especially when I personally haven’t received much news.

Despite all that, honestly, senior year is my favorite year, and I’m reminded daily of just how much I’m going to miss Westridge.

I know everyone complains about Westridge and about senior year. A lot. The classes are hard. It’s extremely competitive. You never know if you’ll be attacked by the foul smell when you walk into your next class. 

And I understand. I’ve had anxiety attacks over college and stayed up for hours staring at my Calculus homework.

Spontaneous use of senior privileges to get Jones or Jamba, late night calls crying from laughter, and also our impending doom while studying for physics, sitting in my parked car chatting with friends—this is the true heart of my senior year.

Senior year has taught me that there’s an art to the walk in from school. A dance as I struggle to park my car in the corner spot and avoid tripping and falling over the curb. The hustle and bustle of groups of lower and middle schoolers going to their next classes passing me by. Greeting my teachers and classmates with a cheery good morning as I pass them by. Walking through the breezeway and its lopsided exit, past the senior tables and past PAC. Will anything be able to replace this?

I’m going to miss talking with security leaving early from school. I’m going to miss talking with the Commons staff (albeit briefly to not hold up the long line). I’m going to miss talking with my teachers, especially on days where classes feel more like hanging out than lectures.

It’s maybe a bit premature to mourn the loss of a school that I haven’t even graduated from. I still have a couple months until May, but to me, it’s just that. A couple months. And a couple months is not a long time. It’s just a handful of weeks, maybe a handful of the classes that I love. Just writing this has me tearing up.

Ask anyone I know—I think they’re all fed up by now with my constant reminiscing and nostalgia. Seriously, instead of doing homework, I often scroll through my limited photo library to reminisce on old memories. I can’t help thinking at every theatre or dance show or sports game I watch, this might just be the last time I get to cheer my friends’ names at the top of my lungs. But I do still have a few more months, games, and shows to attend, and I’m determined to make the most of them. Yes, there will be more grueling essays and tests that I cram the night before, but with them, there will be study dates at the library, the Newsies show, and spring sports senior games. Every remaining second counts all the more. It’s an almost goodbye, but not goodbye yet.