sometime in April, 2025, as I begun the last year of my school.

Written Mayonnaise, school newsletter; Editorial note of sorts; honestly, though? for my batch.

i. to
bad bunny cried on tiktok.
his voice cracked beneath the weight of his own song
DtMf
and the world cracked with him.
strangers clung to the chorus like driftwood,
proof that nostalgia drowns us all the same,
no matter the shore.

nostos, homecoming. algos, pain.
pain in returning, pain in remembering.

and here we are,
the batch of ‘26,
returning, for the last time.
to each other, to our places,
to the roads worn thin beneath our feet.

ii. the
the year bruised into its final days and with it, our childhood faded.
we stand together, shouting for the school to “run-up”
and i must confess, i didn’t
hear the cheers, the claps, the laughter.
i only heard a twelve-year-old newcomer
being told to run.
run now. and whatever you do,
don’t step on the SCs’ stairs.
i felt her questions,
april 1st, 2019. my first term ever.
run now. and whatever you do,
don’t step on the SCs’ stairs.
and i felt the quiet, creeping sadness
of knowing that i stand
on this forbidden stair-case
because
standing here now means i will leave soon.

becoming the seniors, the ones we once gazed up at in wonder, should have felt like an arrival. instead, it feels like 

                                            something
                                                      slipping   
                                                            through
                                                                        our             
                                                                              fingers.

iii. batch
i can already taste the absence of what we have not yet lost.
sleeping on the grass during free periods,
hiding in the library’s hush,
the inter-houses, the competitions, sir pranabh’s voice thundering block and tackle,
the fudge, the spice, the contraband food,
the late-night talks,
the vlogs that clutter my laptop and take up the storage,
the trees, the swings, the sunday maggi.

the faces i love, their tears,
their joy.

to anyone reading this: steal time before it steals from you.
take more moments. take more pictures.
this year will never come again.

iv. ‘26
bad bunny’s DtMf chorus sings:
‘I should’ve taken more pictures when i had you.
I should’ve given you more kisses and hugs whenever i could.
ayy, I hope my people never move away.
and if I get drunk today, I hope they help me out.’

but we will move away.
and i hope — i hope — we help each other out.
i hope we stop for pictures and
vlogs and
hugs and
dances.

i hope we stay up an hour later
to talk
and steal five more minutes
of morning sleep.

this is the beginning of our end.
i hope you fill the entire storage of my laptop.