We’re lying on the rec hall mattresses—stained with grilled cheese grease and whatever’s left behind from not-so-surprising birthday surprises—forcing ourselves to stay awake. The wallowing, moist wind helps. Not because we’re cramming for finals, but because soon, we won’t be irresponsible seniors anymore. Twenty-one days to go. Somehow, we’re having full conversations without saying lowkey even once. That has to mean something.

“Some moments don’t feel big until you realize they’re the ones you’ll come back to.”

I know it sounds cliché, but The Perks of Being a Wallflower had my whole heart since I first watched it. Its popularity didn’t make it basic; if anything, that made it easier to hold on to. I didn’t even know “coming-of-age” was a genre. And when I did, I figured it was something that happened to other people, something for some far-off time. What I didn’t realize was that it was already happening to me.

Vindhya and I love our ridiculous little side quests, and now I know why. Like when we stole a broken mic to record an a cappella cover of “Drag Me Down,” where she Stockholm-syndromed me into believing we (or at least she) sounded good. We never finished recording that.

And now, hungry, she’s squeezing out the last bit of pizza pasta sauce to make sandwiches—ones I’m sure will never taste quite like this again. Maybe it’s our way of remembering every little detail, knowing it won’t last.

I’m watching her lie back on the mattress, unbothered by how many people have used it before. Her tissue paper plate crinkles beside her. The lampshade is tracing her face in soft yellow lines, and I make a mental note to remember this version of her: tired, funny, full of plans for winter in Monaco.

It’s funny how those little things stick with you—the ones you never really plan to remember. But somehow, those moments make you realize that time is always slipping away.

And then somewhere between the jokes and comfort of shared delusions, she says it.

“People are dying.”

Not us, not right now. But still, how some people are just fading. Not because we want them to, but because they will. Like a family member who’s sick and even though you care, you still can’t stop what’s coming.

I hadn’t thought about it like that.

Yes, we won’t be stupid and seventeen anymore (she’d like me to mention she just turned eighteen), and yes, this moment is dying. But to me, people aren’t. Just because the moment is fleeting doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. And even if some of them won’t stay in our lives—no matter how much we want them to—this moment wouldn’t mean as much if they weren’t here for it.

We both realize that this could be a scene from an indie movie—the kind where nothing monumental really happens, except that everything does.

We pass the senior lounge again, looking at the desk cluttered with notes and used mugs, where friendships are sprouting late, like they just realized time’s almost up.

It is.

Four semesters felt like a long time. It’s not. I know that now.

But maybe that’s what coming of age really is—realizing how short even the long stretches are, and trying to live them anyway. Maybe in running barefoot in the quad, fighting over stolen shoes, or just claiming Tangerine as ours even when no one else cared, we were trying to hold on to something we could feel slipping away.

Maybe we still are.

Narayani Sharma – Class of ’25