That can’t be good. 

This wasn’t supposed to go on for this long. The original return-date was supposed to be this upcoming Monday, the 29th. Then, another call came, pushing it back to April 8th. Now, since yesterday, it’s been shot all the way back to May: four days before Senior Leave. That gives seniors only four more days of high school left. 

I never thought of the coronavirus as something actually to be reckoned with. Early on, it seemed to be just another passing epidemic that would fizzle out come February. But it didn’t. What was thought to be a forgettable, passing event that you’d read about on the bottom ticker of the news channel turned out to be an international crisis, making headlines and becoming internationally infamous. 

Of course, you don’t need me to remind you of what’s going on in the world at the moment. Unless you’ve been cryogenically re-animated recently or something, you are very well aware that the world has screeched to a standstill.

My point here is that, well, my senior year is gone. 

There’s some comfort to be found in the fact that big events like prom and graduation haven’t been canceled. Principal Nemith has been fighting greatly for us, trying to save our senior activities. And that is comforting: a massive relief, in fact. Something has been salvaged and preserved from this mess.

But that comfort only extends so far. I miss school, believe it or not. There are plenty of reasons why I enjoy staying home from school: no homework, flexible wake-up and bedtimes, having time for breakfast, not wearing jeans, etc. If you’re an underclassman, this is your dream. You’re no longer in crunch time for the end of the year: you get an overgrown spring break.

But as a senior, I don’t have much time left as a student here in LHS. 

What makes me miss school the most is the fact that I’m losing out on the little things of high school: messing around in DLT, the conversations I have during practice, the jokes we make at lunch. Even the stupid things, like accidentally saying “Nay” after every single voting procedure in student council meetings, or frantically searching for my bag after my classmates hid it from me. Especially with this crisis, I may never go back to class here anymore. I may never read another book for Mr. Rea’s class, take notes with Mr. Pires, or get lost in Mr. Phelon’s. Most importantly, I miss my classmates: the people I’m comfortable with calling my friend, but wouldn’t invite over my house. I miss being yelled at during Harkness discussions, fighting over the comfy chairs in AP Statistics, and shouting out wrong answers in AP Calculus. 

People tell me that we’re living through something unforgettable right now. With each day, history is written: the great Coronavirus Pandemic of 2020. And they’re not necessarily wrong. But, to be entirely honest, I don’t care to be remembered. I don’t care to live through something of lasting importance: something that will be a permanent mainstay in history textbooks and lectures everywhere. That’s not important to me. 

I want my senior year back

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