It is hard to quantify my time at Case Western Reserve University. And yet, now that I’m on the precipice of leaving this campus behind and going forward into the world (and into the upcoming global economic depression), I find myself making lists of all that I have achieved. Doing the math, I have had eight mental health crises, three catastrophic friendship breakups, zero actual breakups, one and a half broken computers, 30 late papers, six Bs, five undeserved As, 250 job application rejections, seven different club leadership roles (though only three of those amounted to actual work), one grade-2 ankle sprain, one 10-hour surgery, one litre of blood loss, 250,000 minutes listened to on my Spotify and a gained appreciation for the late-1990s British rock band Oasis. I have left my name in four editions of Discussions, 29 issues of The Observer, and, if they ever decide to print anything following the age of the dinosaurs, one edition of Case Reserve Review. In four years, I have gained lifelong friendships; the assurance that I have left my mark, however, delible in the lives of those I’ve trained and helped inspire with my constant reminders to be ruder, stronger and more demanding from the world around them; and a caffeine addiction. I have lost a million other things, among these, the ability to wake up with my alarms and the light in my eyes, though now I’m not even sure if these things matter anymore. The world, as a whole, has lost so much at the hands of the cruel and the unjust, in ways that will forever weigh my heart and will taint my remembrance of these years forever. These past four years have been some of the best of my life, and I will cherish them forever, but more things have happened to me and the world at large than I have ever lived through in my entire life.

I find myself returning to these lists in part because I am so bad at saying goodbye. I don’t know what I’ll do once I do my last trip to bug one of my professors at their offices. I know that I have bugged every single one of them for their emails, and I have standing appointments to discuss or monthly readings with at least one of them. And yet, deep in my heart, I know it will not be the same as when I step into one of the dusty Guilford offices with the perpetually dirty-looking carpets and see their patient faces as they’re waiting to hear the latest ridiculous update on my life.

I don’t know what I’ll do once I enter the UMB room for the last time. I know that I have spent my fair share of copy-editing meetings, all-nighters and general hangouts on that grey sofa, but how am I supposed to live with the knowledge that soon there will be a day when I sit on it last? I have written so many bad papers on that thing that it should at least be awarded half my diploma, and yet it will stay there until somebody inevitably breaks it, and I will never see it again, as time will move on without me there to see it.

I don’t know what I’ll do when I say goodbye to my quasi-mentees for the very last time, with no knowledge whether they’ll even remember me by the time summer ends and they get back to their academic lives. I know that I had never expected anyone to find me anywhere near a role model or mentor when I first came to CWRU, and even now, I find myself looking around the room to see what adult I can follow, only to realize I am the oldest one there. I also know that the people I have taught and guided are partly the reason why I have not grown so jaded with the world, as they, in part, remind me that there are those after me who will keep up the good work long after I am gone. I don’t know what I’ll do as I see the world slowly fall apart around me, with the senseless hope in my heart that, even still, there must be a future to look forward to.

I don’t know how I’ll sleep on the night of May 16, hours before going to fetch my diploma, with the ultimate knowledge that, for all intents and purposes, that will be the last time I sleep in the same dorm room as my roommate.

It all returns to the fact that I simply do not want to say goodbye. I think in part I am writing this so you, every single one of you who have touched my life in the past four years, don’t begrudge me for not saying goodbye directly, for simply telling you that my phone is always open, my Discord checked bi-weekly and that I will never begrudge a stupid message because it will remind me that the past four years really did happen, that I will be able to look back on these past four years and know that not all was lost the moment I leave the cracked and badly-upkept grounds of the North Residential Village.

In the spring semester of my freshman year, a professor (who is now my Capstone advisor) asked me whether I was one of the English majors who were graduating that year. I did my part at looking sufficiently mock-offended at the time, but even then, I had felt a sort of bone-weariness that has only further dug into me during my time in university. In truth, I would be lying if I were to say that I haven’t felt a bit like a perpetual senior since then. It’s only now that it’s hitting me what being a senior actually means. And so, for once in my life, I will be brief as I give my vaguely patronizing and wholly pretentious advice to all of you who are reading my farewell: don’t look back in anger, at least not today.