The Words I Never Spoke: A Tale of Goodbye

I’m too good at goodbyes. Not in the cinematic way like the perfect speech or single tear—more like a soft smile and a long hug. I don’t draw it out. That sounds like a good thing, I know, but deep down it really isn’t. And lately, it's been bothering me more than I expected. 

As my senior year comes to an end, farewells are all around me. From saying goodbye to my friends and my teachers to goodbye to the country that hosted me for four years, everything seems to be coming to an end. 

With that, people keep asking me how I feel about my university, about living in a new city, about leaving. About the so-called “lasts”. I’ve been nodding and trying to say all the right things — “I’m going to miss this,” “I can’t believe it's over” — nonetheless, deep down, I feel…fine. To be perfectly honest, I’m excited for college. I’m getting to live in one of my dream cities with some of my best friends from home. I’ve never felt bad about my excitement until now. Now, it feels like a betrayal.

It’s not that I don’t care about my time at SAS. I’ve loved it. I’ve spent four years here – running to make it to class before the bell, laughing with friends at a table we’ve named “the birdcage”, and most of all meeting some of my best friends. This school has seen an endless amount of versions of me. Yet, I’m not struggling to say goodbye. There’s no overwhelming feeling of absence. Simply, the passing of a time I value but am ready to move on from. Somehow, that’s the most unsettling.

Sometimes I worry that my ability to detach makes me appear cold. Like I don’t 

value moments with anyone. The truth is, I do and it's a lot more than I show. My distance is a sort of self-protection I’ve developed after many moves, leaving friends, and goodbyes. It’s leaving before you get left and caught in the mess. It’s a safe distance, helping me stay just far enough, letting me look back with a smile. 

But lately, I’ve begun to wonder what that costs me. 

The other day I took my usual walk with my friend home from the Din Tai Fung in Orchard Road. We were blasting music in our airpods, a ritual we have become most fond of. Casually, I mentioned it was the last month we could continue this ritual and my friend burst out into tears. I don’t mean something subtle, I mean full on sobbing, with tears streaming down her face. 

The worst part? All I could muster up was a laugh. 

My friend let her emotions sweep her into a state of sorrow yet all I could muster was a warm smile and laughter. She understood this was simply how I dealt with goodbyes and took my comforting hug and smile, despite my laughter, as a gesture enough. Is it enough for me though?

Maybe it's all going to hit me on that last night sleepover with my friends. When we paint our skirts with our new schools, and watch High School Musical 3. Maybe I’m going to process it when they sing “High school wasn't meant to last forever”.  Maybe when my friend Samvika plays “Good Old Days” by Macklemore. Maybe my response is just delayed.

But it’s been years of yearbook signings and goodbyes where the most I seem to muster are a couple tears behind closed doors. And now, I just feel guilt. Guilt for not feeling devastation. Guilt for the excitement of what's next. 

Because yes — I am  excited. I’m excited to take the tube to school every day despite the rising costs and the terrible smell. I’m excited for the nights at the pubs. I’m excited to meet new people, new places, new ideas. I’m excited to see what the future holds. And that excitement is a privilege. 

So maybe this essay is a chance at a real goodbye. One that admits my fears, my tears, and most of all my fear of my ability to move on. That I feel distant, and guilty, and cold. That I’ve loved and enjoyed my time here more than I’ve led on. My lack of tears doesn’t mean it all meant nothing. And maybe it’s ok that I’m not falling apart at the end and that goodbyes don’t always look like the goodbye we saw in “Friends”. Maybe they’re quiet tears shed in the background. Silent goodbyes or flashbacks in Cold Storage. Or maybe they’re that feeling you get at the bottom of your gut when walking the halls of school for the last time. 

What I do know is this: I’m leaving my senior year with gratitude. For the teachers who shaped me into the person I am. For my friends who made every day a little sweeter. And for the strangers I discovered along the way.

This is goodbye. For now it's no chaos or tears. And maybe that’s enough.