“The ache for home lives in all of us.” — Maya Angelou

When I first walked through the halls of Arcadia High School, it felt like I had landed in a world I didn’t quite belong to, like I had stumbled into a dream mid-sentence. I came from a place where Spanish spilled onto the streets effortlessly. Where the culture remained prominent. A quiet understanding between individuals who were going through similar struggles. A complete contrast to Arcadia. 

 Everyone seemed to know what they were doing, where they were going, what they wanted to be. And then there was me: quiet, unsure, different, and offbeat. I was lost, trying to understand what it meant to exist in a place that moved faster, louder, and often, without space for difference.

It wasn’t just about customs; it was about feeling like I was always translating myself in my head, even in English. It was about figuring out how to balance home life, where family came first and emotions weren’t always spoken aloud, with school life, where independence was expected and vulnerability was dressed up as confidence. I learned to speak fluently in the dialect of “I’m fine,” even when I wasn’t. I smiled in photos I didn’t feel ready for. I kept my head down, trying to be the version of myself that would be easiest to accept.

And yet, even in that struggle, there was something quietly beautiful about the journey. I began to understand that I wasn’t alone in feeling like I didn’t fit. That maybe fitting in wasn’t the goal at all. Maybe the real goal was to make space for myself, for others like me, for those who never had a voice loud enough to echo down the hallways. I am still adjusting. I may always be adjusting. But there is strength in that too, in the constant becoming.

“Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden

 Sundays in that poem were quiet. Sacrificial. Full of small gestures that meant everything later.

That’s how Mr. Woodin showed care: not loudly, but steadily. Thoughtfully. When I think of him, I think of C110, his classroom, his sanctuary. The natural light streaming through the windows (because he hated that his old classroom in J-Building didn’t have any), the room filled with the warm scent of books and coffee. He didn’t just teach literature. He lived it. He breathed life into words, turning every poem into a confession, every story into a secret worth keeping. And the books he slipped into our lives felt like secrets we were meant to discover.

He became more than a teacher. He was a steady voice in a very noisy world.

He called us “scholars.” At first, I thought it was just a quirk. Later, I learned it came from a teacher Mr. Woodin deeply respected, Mr. Hooper. Then Mr. Woodin found a poem by Walter de la Mare called “Scholars,” which encouraged him to start calling us scholars. That’s when I understood: to be his scholar was not just a title, it was a trust. It meant he believed in something in you that you hadn’t seen yet. He believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself.

Freshman year, I was lucky enough to be in his class. Junior year, I was even luckier to be his TA. In between, there were coffee cups gifted to me during long mornings, books left on my desk like quiet offerings, bad dad jokes (that I secretly enjoyed) and conversations that felt like they were made to stay with me forever. He told me about the Arcadia Bubble, a phrase that felt like a joke at first, until I started to see it: the pressure, the illusion of perfection, the way we all chased excellence like it was oxygen. But Mr. Woodin never wanted us to pop the bubble with bitterness. He just wanted us to see it, and then decide what to do with that clarity.

I still remember how he reminded us to wear pink on Wednesdays, not just as a reference to Mean Girls, but as a tradition that stitched us together. He told us why he wore a suit on Fridays. He called it Sutro-Friday, a quiet tribute to his friend, Dr. Sutro. It wasn’t about formality. It was about memory. About honoring someone who mattered. Small rituals like that taught me how we carry those we love with us, not just in thought, but in action, in the way we live, the choices we make, the details we keep sacred. And even if the coffee was always way too strong for my taste, I drank it anyway. Because it meant something. It meant he saw me.

Like a paper plane that somehow circles back to my feet, Mr. Woodin’s presence returned to me again and again, his words, his quiet belief, his stillness. A steady shade in the heat of high school. His wisdom didn’t shout, it unfolded slowly, like petals meant to be noticed in time. And when I finally looked, really looked, I saw how much had taken root.

Years from now, I’ll still be one of his scholars. That title doesn’t expire. That belonging doesn’t fade. Whenever I return to Arcadia, I know his door will be open. His classroom will still be C110. And if I happen to be wearing pink on a Wednesday, it won’t be a coincidence.

Mr. Woodin.
Tell the boss I appreciated the recipe she gave me.
And thank you for every quiet gesture, every recommendation, and every moment of believing in me.

TTFN!

“It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.” — Gabriel García Márquez

If Arcadia ever felt like home, it was because of the people who found me, who stayed. My friends didn’t just walk beside me during high school; they carried me through it. Each of them arrived at a different time, in a different way, but they all offered something that shaped me.

Caitlyn was my first real friend in Arcadia. In a world that often made me feel like an outsider, she gave me a chance without asking me to be anyone else. She is my sunflower in full bloom, a soft flame in the daylight, her golden face always seeking the sun, always turning gently toward joy. Her warmth spills effortlessly into the cups of those lucky enough to stand beside her, like sunshine that stays with you even after the day is done, golden and grounding. Her presence is a quiet light that lingers long after she’s gone, casting warmth across every heart she passes with the kind of grace that doesn’t need to announce itself, it simply glows.

There was this one moment early in our friendship, a dumb interaction over a water bottle. I don’t even remember the details anymore, but it became one of those small jokes that sticks. And to this day, I still find random selfies she took on my phone when I wasn’t looking, each one like a tiny reminder that I was loved, even when I forgot.

Caitlyn, I’m not emo, trust.

Annie my bluebell kissed by dew and cupped in morning light, thoughtful, graceful, and kind. She stands basking in the hush of the morning sun, quietly resilient, her strength never loud but always steady. With every small gesture, she offers a gentle reliability, the kind of calm you don’t notice until everything else falls away. She doesn’t ask to be seen, but her presence is a comfort that stays subtle, sincere, and steady as breath.

We have this inside joke about a video where a certain someone compares high school to toilet paper. It sounds ridiculous, but it’s stuck with us. Somehow, in its absurdity, it’s also true. Annie made even the most chaotic days feel manageable.

And Annie, we didn’t need words. Your silence was comforting. When we would eat lunch together, or go out to Jokers and eat noodles in silence, it wasn’t awkward, it was peaceful silence. I appreciate the little gestures you do, like putting your arm on my shoulder and pulling me closer to you during pictures. Spending time with you was like taking a breath of air without realizing it was what I needed.

Annie, I hope you remember me when you make it big.

Yuying my moonflower, soft petals unfurling beneath silver skies when the world grows still. She blooms quietly under the hush of twilight, unseen by most, yet radiant in her own way. There’s something celestial about her, like the moon, gentle, steady and full of quiet strength. She glows with the silvery light of the moon that doesn’t beg to be noticed, but offers comfort to those who do. 

She’s the person I could rant to at midnight, the voice on the other end of a headset during late-night gaming sessions that lasted until five in the morning, the listener who never judged. She listened to me go on about Trackstar, pH, Sheep, and McDonald’s (yes, those were code names), never once questioning why I had so many aliases, just laughing and keeping up like it was the most natural thing in the world. We spent hours together at the library, not always studying, just coexisting, scrolling, scribbling, snacking, yapping and sitting in a kind of silence that only happens between people who feel comfortable with each other.

After HOCO, we were not quite ready to say goodbye for the day, so our big backs went to McDonalds. Other times, we’d swap songs or talk about the artists we both enjoyed. Her friendship is the kind you don’t have to ask for, it just shows up, unwavering. A steady moonlight that never needed to be loud to be luminous.

Yuying, we are definitely not beating the allegations.

Like a cat that finds its way home, no matter how far it’s wandered, I somehow found my way to them. Together, they are a garden of light. Each offering their own kind of warmth. Each rooted in something deeply kind and enduring. I am better because of them. I found pieces of myself in their company. I found home.

“It is the time you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important.” — The Little Prince

Joe.
Even now, I hesitate to write your name not from forgetting, but from never being able to. Some people don’t fade, even after they’re gone.

No one really goes to our spot in Hobo Alley anymore. Maybe they remember us, “the father and daughter” and choose to leave it undisturbed. The rituals remain. I started one of my own: a single red rose and, of course, your coffee. I sit in my place, lean slightly left, and pretend your shoulder is still there solid, warm.

Some must remember. Maybe they’ve pieced it together, the girl with the coffee and flower is the same child from a decade ago. I look different now. I finally let my hair do that “curly thing” you loved. You said it was beautiful. I couldn’t see it then. But sometimes, just for you, I let it curl.

You were, and are, my rose. The one I chose, and who chose me. You were the one that introduced me to The Little Prince. And like in The Little Prince, it wasn’t because you were the most unique person in the world; it was because I chose you, and you chose me back. Because of the time. Because of love.

When I wrote My Dear Joe, it felt like carving my heart into paper. But I’d do it again. A thousand times. You are a story I’ll never stop telling.

Your memory lingers, like the scent of rain on pavement, unexpected, but unmistakably known. That piece wasn’t just writing. It was a love letter to the man who showed me that gentleness isn’t weakness. That love given freely becomes sacred.

You taught me that people don’t always stay, but love does. That absence isn’t forgotten. And that time spent with someone can make them eternal.

Some days, I still expect to see you around the corner. Maybe I always will.

You were a reminder that love is an act of time. And I spent mine well on you.

With love,
Elle.

“What is essential is invisible to the eye.” — The Little Prince

As I sit here trying to summarize four years of growth, heartbreak, healing, and joy, I realize that high school was never just about the grades, the tests, or the college applications. It was about becoming. About softening where I once hardened. About showing up even when I didn’t want to. About carving out small places of safety in a world that didn’t always feel safe.

Arcadia wasn’t easy for me. But maybe it wasn’t supposed to be. Maybe what mattered more was that I didn’t give up. That I stayed. That I built something real from the confusion. That I found people who helped me see myself more clearly. That I became someone I’m not ashamed of.

There are still days when I feel like I’m holding my breath, still trying to figure out where I belong. But I’ve learned that belonging isn’t something you wait for, it’s something you build. One conversation. One gesture. One friend at a time. And slowly, you learn to exhale.

I lived in my head a lot, but maybe that’s where I started finding myself. I began to dream by day. And like Poe once wrote, “They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.” I started to notice what matters. The small things. The invisible things.

High school is supposed to be a chapter, not the whole story. But the people who filled these pages, my friends, my teachers, and Joe, will stay with me far beyond this place. I carry them with me in the way I speak, the way I write, the way I love.

Arcadia taught me that time is the greatest thing we can give each other. And that who we become is shaped most by those who chose to stay. Who saw us clearly. Who let us bloom slowly, gently, in our own time.

Like a half-forgotten dream that lingers in the morning light, this chapter drifts gently from my hands, familiar, fading, and full of meaning. I don’t know what comes next. But I know how to carry love like light. I know how to hold on. I know how to let go. I know how to say goodbye softly, with gratitude.

Farewell.