In all honesty, it is difficult to word this story. I did not want it to come off as petty or rude to anyone in particular, because that is not my intention. Rather, I hope that by writing this, I can answer the question, because right now, I have no idea how.

I feel like it is an inevitable fact of life that when people know something is ending, they want to be close to those around them as it occurs. This fact is what makes me doubt whether the sudden warmth in the classroom as senior year comes to a close is genuine or just a side effect of a looming deadline.

I have one friend I was extremely close with during my sophomore and junior years. We attended family functions together, went on multiple vacations and were thought of as a pair to everyone. However, as it typically does, the closeness fizzled out and we became just familiar faces to one another. No bad blood, just time creating an inevitable separation. 

Now, it is unclear if it is the knowledge that our time in such a confined space is ending, but we have recently become closer than ever. We both agree there should not be any regrets in our last months of high school, and I am so grateful we found each other again.

As we navigate our final months, that separation I mentioned earlier feels stranger than ever. I still maintain a streak on Snapchat with my friends who have graduated, a digital reminder that says “I am here” without actually saying anything at all. It is a curated exchange of half-faces and ceiling fans — a ritual of older friends who do not quite know how to exist in each other’s present. I would love nothing more than to talk to each of them every day and reinsert myself into their daily lives, but as someone with more older friends than those her age, I know that is not possible.

It makes me wonder: if the streak broke today, would we have any reason to speak tomorrow? Or are we just keeping the spark alive in a friendship that has already moved on? We are holding onto these digital ties because it is easier than admitting that we have outgrown the versions of ourselves that used to be inseparable.

There is a specific kind of intimacy that comes from being stuck in the same trenches for four years. We are united by a collective trauma bond forged by Hayduk bagels, the tiredness of climbing up to the third floor and the shared panic of an Advanced Placement Macroeconomics test we did not study for. We have seen each other at our most sleep-deprived and stressed moments, navigating the same environment day after day.

In these final weeks, people I have not spoken to since freshman year are suddenly waving in the parking lot. We are nostalgic for a shared experience that has not even ended yet. It is a confusing middle ground — we are not exactly “friends” in the way that entails knowing each other’s secrets or weekend plans, but we are not strangers either. We are survivors of the same system, and there is an unspoken camaraderie in knowing we made it to the finish line together.

Maybe the truth is that “senior” is its own category of relationship. We are a graduating class first, and our own people second. We are holding onto each other not necessarily because we have found deep, lifelong connections, but because these are the only people who truly understand what it feels like to leave this place behind at this time. Even if we do not stay in each other’s lives, there is a genuine kindness in these final interactions — a mutual respect for the years we spent growing up side by side.

So, are we friends? Maybe not in the traditional sense. But we are a part of each other’s history, and for now, at the end of our high school careers, maybe being “just seniors” is enough.