From “The Little Prince,” Antoine de Saint-Exupéry:

“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”

For me, that rose has always been The Observer.

At first, I read that line as something simple and almost comforting. That the things we care about are meaningful because we choose to care about them. Over time, I understood it differently. The “wasted time” it speaks of isn’t really wasted at all. It’s the quiet, repetitive, sometimes frustrating work that slowly, almost imperceptibly, turns something to yours.

Anyone who knows me knows I tend to overthink things, so it should come as no surprise that I’ve been mentally drafting this farewell since I first laid out the farewell pages three years ago. And yet, when it finally came time to write this, I found myself at a loss.

It wasn’t until I looked down at my necklace, the Little Prince standing atop asteroid B-612, that I remembered where this all began. “The Little Prince” was the story that made me fall in love with stories. When I first read it, I was drawn to the obvious: a boy travelling between planets. When I got older, however, I stopped focusing on where he was going and started paying attention to what he was leaving behind and what he chose to hold onto. This realization led me to The Observer during my very first week at Case Western Reserve University.

Since then, I’ve helped publish 91 issues of The Observer: 10 as a layout editor, 54 as director of design and 27 as director of digital media (along with my more unofficial role as the creator of the fun page). I’ve spent more nights than I can count in the UMB office, sometimes arriving at 5 p.m. on Wednesday and leaving at 8 a.m. the next morning. I never minded the late nights, though, because those were the hours that made it matter—that made it mine.

Somewhere in those hours, I understood another line: “What is essential is invisible to the eye.”

In my sentimental senior year reflections, I’ve often thought of all the ways The Observer has changed over the years, but writing this farewell forced me to consider something else: the ways The Observer has changed me. It taught me that stories aren’t just words on a page. They’re illustrations, photos and comics. They’re Top 10 Lists and Worst Case Scenarios. More than anything, it taught me that people are stories, too. That is a lesson I will carry with me far beyond The Observer. Because people, like stories, don’t arrive whole. They come in fragments and it is our responsibility to piece them together.

That’s why the part I find hardest to put into words isn’t my work on The Observer, it’s the people. In the final scene of “The Little Prince,” the fox explains that while everyone has the same stars, the stars are not the same for everyone. This is how The Observer will always exist to me.

It isn’t the pages published or the issues sent out each week. It’s the people who filled those pages I’ll remember most. Sometimes I think I’ve gotten to live two lives. One is a world of stories where I have flown on asteroid B-612, tamed a rose and befriended a fox. It’s a beautiful life, but my second is far superior.

My second life is populated by characters slightly less eccentric, but real, made of flesh and bone, who are my greatest source of inspiration. Every member of all the Editorial Boards I’ve worked with has shaped these moments into what they are. While I wish I could thank each of you individually, it would take far more pages than we could ever afford to print. So please know this: I am endlessly grateful to have been a part of this with all of you.

Clay Preusch and Joce Ortiz, you were two of the first people to make The Observer feel like home—San Diego changed everything. Tarun Sepuri and Shifra Narasimhan brought me into The Observer and gave me the greatest gift of my college experience. Shareen Chahal and Elizabeth McHugh, you are my design family, and I’m so grateful for every moment we spent InDesigning together. Helen Treseler, I will never forget our three-week argument over your misspelled name that you actually typed wrong yourself. You are chaos and peace and all once, bringing both laughter and comfort wherever you go.

Esha Bagora, Benjamin Kang, Timothy Le and Rhea Soni, overseeing The Observer Instagram is no small task. I am grateful for their consistent creativity and willingness to take ownership of something so visible and important.

Obafami Tidjani came in expecting to write code and ended up having to learn SNO, which is not for the faint of heart. From his first typo-ridden newsletter to now where I don’t even have to check them anymore, he’s become a confident and capable web editor. Ayan Sheikh jumped into CWRU with unrivalled energy and enthusiasm. He threw himself into so many clubs and activities and even created his own coffee review series (which I will be continuing to take inspiration from next year).

I genuinely don’t know where the digital media team would be without Tyler Sun and Matthew Stall. Tyler has a reliability and eye for moments that has shaped every issue we’ve produced. Matthew’s creativity and viral videos put The Observer on the map. Together, they pushed me to be a better director of digital media every day.

Moses Fleischman is the person I never have to worry about, the one who is always on top of everything, often more so than I am. I can think of no one more capable of stepping into the role of director of digital media, and have no doubt he will succeed in ways I never could. Not just because of his actual understanding of video editing and SNO that far surpasses mine, but because of his kindness, humility and patience.

Now, to the person who has probably already stopped reading to yell at me for forgetting him, Phillip Kornberg. Half of what comes out of Phillip’s mouth is probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, but when I look beyond those things, Phillip is someone who is kind, thoughtful, genuinely curious and, yes, I’ll say it, incredibly smart. His energy, humor and presence made every room feel lighter (which he would never say about me), and I wish we had more time working together.

Hannah Johnson is one of the most quietly powerful people I know. Focused, thoughtful and effortlessly funny, she makes everything feel easier and more fun just by being there. She has a way of moving through the world that is gentle but unmistakable. Every time she puts her headphones in and gets to work, it’s impossible not to admire her.

Darcy Chew taught me what true commitment looks like. Whether it be during her time as a copy editor, sports editor or as our executive editor, the level of care she has for The Observer and for the student body is unrivaled. Watching her work tirelessly to advocate for others, stay informed and fight for what matters has been one of the most impressive parts of my time here. She knows what she cares about and she pursues it fully, and there is something truly special about that.

To be honest, I was scared to give up being director of design after two years. I had worked really hard, and part of me didn’t want to let go. But I think getting to watch Anjali Bhuthpur and Lucas Yang take over the design team has been one of my greatest joys on The Observer. I am so incredibly proud of the work they have done, and it has meant so much to me to watch them grow from their first days on the design team to their last as its leaders.

Anjali went from someone pasting articles on the sports page to someone spending hours carefully cutting athletes out of photos and wrapping text around them, then teaching someone else how to do the same. She is endlessly positive, kind and compassionate in a way that pushes me to be a better person. She has always been strong, steady and true to herself, and that is what I admire most. She has taught me far more about who to be than I could have ever taught her about InDesign.

Lucas Yang is everything to me. I always knew Lucas was an incredible artist, anyone with eyes can see that. But what people don’t see, what I was lucky enough to experience every single day, is the person to whom I owe everything on The Observer. He understood my brain in a way that no one else ever has. The ideas that lived in my head—the ones that felt too big, too chaotic, too unrealistic—he never once dismissed them. He met them with curiosity, albeit maybe a sarcastic joke, but then somehow turned them into something real. Working with Lucas never felt like work. It felt like building something together, a reflection of both of us that will forever live on in the pages of The Observer. We had an unspoken rhythm. I didn’t have to explain everything and he didn’t have to ask. He just knew. And for someone like me who is shy, self-conscious and slightly neurotic, that kind of understanding is rare. When everything felt too big, he had a way of making it all feel quiet. It’s probably the only reason I was able to lay out a page in the first place. I am still in awe of him. Every drawing, design and detail he poured himself deeply into have been kept, literally, in a scrap book because I couldn’t care to let those moments go. Not just because they’re beautiful (which they are) but because they represent something bigger: the time we spent creating side by side. Lucas sat beside me through all of it, and no words exist in the human language to explain what that has meant to me. I know I’ll never fully get what I’m trying to say right, but I hope this is close enough.

What I do know is this. There is no version of my time at The Observer that exists without him at the center of it, and there is no version of me that hasn’t been shaped by him.

Tyler Vu, Tyrannosaurus Vu, Tymungus. The first time Tyler and I met, almost four years ago, I was so scared to go up to him that it took me three whole weeks to work up the courage to go ask him a simple question. Unbeknownst to me at the time, asking Tyler to return my roommate’s purple sparkly shot glass would turn into one of my most meaningful friendships of my college experience. Despite what many (and I mean many) may think, Tyler is truly one of the most caring and compassionate people I know. No matter what has changed in my life during college, one thing has always been certain: I have Tyler in my corner to celebrate my successes and to poke fun at my failures. Tyler has a rare ability to chase any and every opportunity.  Watching him grow from a semi-productive graphic designer to a layout designer who helped win the design award at the UMB Correspondents’ Dinner, to the best director of business operations I’ve had the privilege of working with, and getting to be a part of his journey has meant more to me than I can put into words.

Elie Aoun and Shivangi Nanda were my two pillars; without them, I could not stand. I am proud to have been a part of the 3 a.m. Trio. They are my ultimate inspiration, the people from whom I inherited my love for The Observer.

The first year of friendship with Elie was rocky. I actually had a true and genuine disdain for him and, at times, contemplated quitting The Observer. But I’m so glad I stayed. The qualities which first unnerved me became the ones I admire most. His stubborn persistence and sharp wit pushed me to think harder, work better and become a stronger version of myself. Somewhere along the way he became one of my closest friends. Our midnight screaming matches, equal parts debate and reluctant mediation from Shivangi, are moments I will treasure forever. Beneath it all was a level of honesty and understanding that is rare, and I am so much better because of it.

Shivangi was the first person who made me feel like there was nothing I couldn’t do and no version of myself I couldn’t grow into. I never said it out loud, but I was terrified to become a director as a sophomore. Shivangi never let me feel that fear, though. Instead, she led in a way that made everyone around her feel like they belonged. Her ability to uplift others was constant and unwavering. As executive editor, she made an Observer where people felt seen, capable and trusted, often before they felt that way about themselves. The person I became here is, in so many ways, a reflection of what I learned from her.

Together, Shivangi and Elie filled The Observer with love and fun and laughter and a sense of belonging that is easy to overlook but impossible to replace. In the two years they were teaching me to be myself, I’m not sure they ever realized the person I most wanted to be was them. Thank you both. You are my guideposts for everything.

From the Little Prince, I learned that stars don’t change, only the way we see them.

Everyone reads newspapers. Not everyone sees them the same way.

To most, they are pages to be folded, recycled and forgotten. To me, they will always be something else entirely. They will be the nights that turned into mornings without noticing, the quiet hum of the UMB office when everyone else had gone home, the feeling of not wanting to leave when I finally could.

They are all of you.

Not just the work we did, but the moments in between—things that didn’t seem important at the time, but somehow became everything.

I think that’s the hardest part of leaving: not that this is ending, but that something so constant and familiar will now only exist in memory.

Maybe that’s what makes it matter. Because just like the stars, these moments don’t disappear when we walk away from them. They just become something we carry instead.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fully explain what The Observer has meant to me (shocking after writing this much, I know). But I know I don’t have to. Because, like the stars, it will always mean something different to me than it will to anyone else, and that’s what makes it mine.