Crying during the last lecture even if you hated the class.
CRYING DURING THE LAST LECTURE EVEN IF YOU HATED THE CLASS.
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Remember that unexpected lump in your throat, the tear that somehow escaped, during the final session of that one required course you endured? The one where every minute felt like an eternity, the professor's voice a dull drone, and the subject matter as exciting as watching paint dry. It made no sense. You genuinely disliked it, perhaps even actively resented its existence on your transcript. Yet, there you were, subtly wiping your eyes.
It wasn't about the content, was it? It was the end. The profound, terrifying, exhilarating end of an era. It was the realization that this intense, demanding, singular experience – the late-night study sessions, the intellectual sparring, the pressure, the privilege – was drawing to a close. That tear wasn't for the dry statistics or the obscure historical figures; it was for the four years of growth, struggle, and camaraderie that lecture represented.
It’s one of those unspoken, shared rituals, isn't it? A silent acknowledgment of all the "loved or hated" traditions that molded us. That tear was for the community you were about to leave, the identity you had forged within those hallowed walls, and the uncertain but exciting future waiting just beyond. It was a goodbye to a chapter, a bittersweet moment of closure for a journey unlike any other. Even the parts we hated became woven into the fabric of a truly unforgettable experience.