On the first day of kindergarten, I stepped into the Harker community donning a pair of black velcro Skechers, sharply creased khaki shorts and a brilliant blue polo shirt emblazoned with the Harker H. In less than two weeks, I’ll be stepping out of it in a black robe.

Thirteen has always been considered an unlucky number, but for me it bears the significance of my final year at Harker, so make of that what you will! But with it surfaces a mosaic of emotions I’m really not sure how to respond to.

There’s a lot that could be said about my time at this school – I know who the fifth grade oxygel thief was (sworn to secrecy), I still gleam at the thought of dodging those 8th grade finals, and I will probably end up relaying the controversial tale of the dodgeball sit-in to my peers in college.

But overwhelmingly, scenes of grandeur like these aren’t the best embodiment of my high school experiences; Instead, I find the most resonating moments in things like Modern Family. Whether I had an AP, 2 tests or 4 projects on Thursday, I always found 20 minutes of every Wednesday night to devote to the show, almost especially when I knew I would regret it the next day. A casual ritual I scarcely noticed, the show brought a fluid warmth to every week without demanding a second thought.

And in spite of all my zeal to finally graduate high school and take off into a frightening world with temperatures that dip well below 60 degrees, I can’t help but cling to moments like these– small safety nets that always offer a light-hearted note of familiarity.

Much to my dismay, a tragic realization has begun to creep up on me: almost every single cliche thrown at me in the past few years has emerged at least somewhat triumphant.

For example, in spite of what tends to be said about students at high-performing schools like ours, the past few months taught me that my peers are undeniably the fuel that kept me, and this community, chugging forward. A subtle companionship emerged through our shared frustrations, our class finally finding something to rally behind.

I’m still waiting for a James Joyce-esque moment of “profane joy” to set in; it remains startling to see my classmates from kindergarten lining their senior collages down Main’s hallway, and every conversation hinting towards the future feels ridiculously surreal.

Even as the lasts start ticking by, it’s unexpectedly difficult to completely comprehend that there won’t actually be another time at some nondescript point in the next year. Realizing that I may never sit among a clump of such glaringly yellow, absurdly drawn smiley faces again was surprisingly a little saddening.

This piece was originally published in the pages of The Winged Post on May 13, 2015.