I hesitate to step through the school gate, taking a deep breath. I let my eyes take in the scenery: freshmen cutely and nervously discovering their new school, juniors tiredly walking through to meet their friends, and seniors looking unmoved, having stared at the same view for two years already. 

And yet here I am, a freshly baked senior – hah, how funny that sounds – unable to open the chapter of her senior year. Am I ready for this? Ready to conclude my school days? My youth?

This is, after all, the beginning of the end.

After this comes the chapter of my university life. (Well, that's at least what I've always planned.)

Perhaps I am being overly dramatic, but "university" has a whole different sound to it than the word "school". University isn't just one step closer to adulthood, it's the beginning of adulthood. The point where you have to decide the direction you're going to take in your life. Sure, you can change it still, but what I probably mean is that being a senior has some kind of finality to it. 

And I've always been someone to hate what's "final". I don't want it -- whatever it is -- to end, even if my school life up until now hasn't been spectacular. Actually I could sum it up in five sentences, and those five sentences will surely bore you to death. I know that my last year won't change my life drastically; it'll mostly ju