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 those endless nights in the library, the high-stakes exams, the intense debates that spilled out of lecture halls and into late-night coffee runs? That unique blend of exhilaration and exhaustion, the pressure cooker that forged us into who we are. As senior year unfolds, a different kind of intensity emerges – a bittersweet countdown to the finish line.
You’re there, perhaps in a cavernous auditorium, perhaps a cramped seminar room, for that final session of a class you truly dreaded. The professor drones on, the material is as dull as ever, and you’ve mentally checked out weeks ago. Yet, as they deliver that last sentence, that final "good luck," something unexpected happens. A lump forms in your throat. Your eyes well up. You might even shed a tear, discreetly, hoping no one notices.
It wasn't about the quadratic equations, the obscure historical dates, or the impenetrable philosophical texts. It was about everything else. It was about the end of an era. The comfort of a predictable routine, even one you sometimes resented. It was about the shared journey, the unspoken camaraderie of countless hours spent together, even with strangers. It was about the terrifying leap into the unknown that lay just beyond those ivy-covered gates. It was about acknowledging the growth, the struggles, and the triumphs that defined these transformative years. That tear wasn’t for the class; it was for the person you were when you started, and the person you’ve become. It was for the beautiful, messy, unforgettable journey itself.