“ I stopped the tape and pressed rewind.”
Two years ago, on Christmas Eve, I typed that line as the opening of a short story. It was about someone, accomplished and fulfilled, looking back on their twenties. At the end, I wrote of a poem by Adrienne Rich—the protagonist, carrying a trace of melancholy, welcoming the rewinding of time. A flash of white, and the final full stop fell into place.
Two years later, at the end of April, on the night of the shouting ceremony, in a stifling fourth-floor classroom, a friend turned on her DV camera. When the lens turned to me, I can no longer remember what I said. But the moment she pressed that small playback button, something absurd and bittersweet rose sharply within me:
Our high school years seemed, at last, to be coming to an end.
In the three years before this, Senior Week had always felt distant to me. I watched from afar—faces filled with joy, with sadness—bidding farewell to seniors both familiar and unfamiliar. And a week later, everything would fall silent again.
But now it was our turn. Five days felt both too long and too short. Everything captured by film cameras seemed like a distant, hazy dream. So I turned to words, trying to hold on to it all.
Rewind, rewind, rewind.
Day 1 K-pop Random Dance, Leavers’ Games
Hair flying, bodies spinning, movements locked into rhythm—smiles lit up each dancer’s face as the music played. The small space beneath the grand steps had, over the past four years, carried countless unforgettable performances. And now, as the music began, we exchanged a glance and rushed forward once again—just like always.
Inside the gymnasium, the volleyball Leavers’ Game unfolded in a different rhythm. Another leap into the air, another strike, the heavy thud of the ball hitting the ground. Sweat and exhilaration coexisted here, and so did something far more precious—friendship that continued to hold.
We would still jump for the same ball crossing the net—now, and in moments yet to come.
Day 2 Water Fight
The sunlight that Tuesday was impossibly bright. By the time we crossed the corridor in the afternoon, we could already see three pools filling on the basketball court. A quiet excitement began to gather.
At five o’clock, the court had transformed into a battlefield made entirely of water. Dressed in different House colors, everyone laughed as water splashed into the air—basins or water guns, anything would do. No one was leaving dry. Among friends, the splashing turned into play, droplets catching the sunlight and breaking into fragments of light.
In that moment, the water felt less like water, and more like something else entirely—pure joy, pure blessing. And within the curtain of water, youth unfolded in unrestrained celebration.
Chaotic, radiant, uncontained. And when it all settled, we stood together for a group photo beneath the setting sun. The mood softened, turning tender, almost sentimental.
Golden hour spilled its fleeting brilliance across everything. Laughter still lingered in the air, and in the cool early-summer breeze, we fixed this moment in time.
Day 3 The Shouting Night
Night fell. One by one, the lights in the teaching building dimmed, leaving only the glow sticks in our hands—bright, scattered, alive.
Music began. Photos flickered across the screen, one after another—fragments of memory that belonged only to us. A pink-purple sunset in the distance after club activities; moments from SGT and the Fashion Show; the roar at the finish line after the hundred-meter sprint on Sports Day; group photos from House and sports competitions, always together, always supporting one another; laughter in dorm rooms, in classrooms—every small, shining record of being alive in that time.
Countless vivid moments. Countless unforgettable pasts. Countless versions of you.
When the final photo faded, we threw our glow sticks into the night sky with all our strength. They arced like meteors—brief, brilliant—gathering into something like a galaxy. Silent, yet surging.
Light traced free, unrestrained curves in the dark, rushing toward a future that felt impossibly bright.
Day 4 Graduation Performance
The theater felt both familiar and strange. Every performance was astonishing in its own way. Choirs, solo singing, instrumental ensembles and solos, bands weaving together a range of sounds—one moment lost in the softness of a flute, the next swept into the intensity of drums.
Short plays brought waves of laughter. A reinterpretation of My Shot left us in awe. And finally, a dance performance in cow costumes by Sparkling sent the entire room into a final surge of energy.
After the plays, the melody of 《海阔天空》 began. Heartbeats and music resonated together. Lights flickered on, one by one, like stars awakening. Emotion moved quietly through the room. There was no need for sadness. No need for farewell. In that moment, we had everything.
And when the final Superman Dance track began, students rushed onto the stage from every direction—dancing freely, singing loudly, laughing without restraint. Youth, in its most vivid form, burned brightly in that moment. Everything surged upward with the music.
In the group photo that followed, it was all of us—holding onto infinite hope.
Day 5 Epilogue
The final day of Senior Week ended with the Farewell Ceremony—after the passing of the school flag, the announcement of House points, and speeches on stage.
And then, after it was over, rain poured down.
The scent of earth and rain filled the air, carried by a restless wind. Memories—sudden, vivid—rose and collided with something deeper: longing, uncertainty. Tears and unease shimmered like fragile soap bubbles, iridescent and fleeting.
A quiet emptiness. Confusion. Joy. Sadness. And perhaps something more.
On Friday morning, I attended the final class of my high school years. The air was cool. Rainwater left scattered patterns across the wooden corridor floor. It was, somehow, the last time I would walk this path because of a lesson. When the bell rang, we took a photo in front of the world map. The moment the shutter clicked, everything felt newly born. You and I stood there, immersed in something almost unbearable—like being submerged in tears.
It will never truly end. Perhaps only in the moment it ends does it begin to hold meaning.
On this afternoon in 2026, we stood in the same rain, saying goodbye as we moved forward— to a time of innocence that was always meant to pass.
Something we had to go through.
Something we resisted, and yet came to accept.
Something we will always remember.
Let us meet again, on a rainy night in early summer —
for everything we have loved.
- Article / Dalros Wang
- Photos / David, Nemo, Admissions
