I don't remember the name of every teacher I had.
I don't remember most of the grades I got, or the way the school hallways smelled in spring, or the full names of the people I sat next to for four years.
But I remember her.
I remember the way her voice felt like calm in a loud world.
The way I fell in love without meaning to.
The way I carried that love like a secret I was never brave enough to tell.
And sometimes, when life feels too fast, I think about that version of me—seventeen, heart full of things he didn't know how to say. Sitting in the back of her class, hoping for one more moment, one more glance, one more reason to stay just a little longer.
I never told her.
She probably forgot me.
But some stories don't need to be shared to be real.
And some goodbyes are meant to stay unsaid.
The end.
Graduating Without Goodbye