The Final Rush

It’s over. It’s really over.

It’s not that dramatic, sorry, I’d just always wanted to start a blog post like that.

And yet, even as I type that, some part of me doesn’t quite believe it.

The last few weeks have been a blur of final assessments, exams in the big hall, the kind of exhaustion that settles behind your eyes but keeps you moving anyway. And then there was the film premiere in Newtown, the cinema filled with people, the hours I spent in the editing lab flashing in my mind like a montage. The marathon of it all, leading to this.

My heart raced through the screening, half-expecting a clip to be out of place, an audio cut to be slightly off—but it wasn’t. It was near perfect. And then—we won. Best Film. I was told to go down to the front. An applause? For me?

I stood there in the glow of the cinema lights, smiling, accepting something I had worked for. And yet, at the same time, I had been heartbroken.

Unrequited love had wrapped itself around my ribs like a vice. Torture is a strong word, but I had felt it in my chest, in my stomach, in the way I had to swallow back everything I wanted to say.

In one of my final writing classes, we had to stand and share an idea, a piece of advice, something that had shaped us. The boy who made my head spin sat just a few rows back, and I spoke my three minutes about Gestalt theory.

"We are greater than the sum of our parts."

What I really meant was someone’s inability to love me back does not make me less. Even if, at times, it made me feel impossibly small.

But I am moving through it. I am wading through the waters.

Leading up to graduation, my best friend and I had been getting ready together, picking up our robes and mortarboards the week before, snickering at the price of those robes—that we had to return, by the way. We joked about the system, teetering between "Are we really graduating?" and "What? We’re actually finished with university."

We had Japanese food and copious amounts of sake, and the next morning, we made pancakes. And when it came time to head to the ceremony, we didn’t think that it would be okay, or normal, to wait until we arrived at Town Hall to put on our robes. I don’t know what came over us, we were stressing and rushing more than we did any of our exams. I laugh now thinking back to it.

We caught the train in full graduation attire—robes, mortarboards, everything. We got on the train and straightened ourselves out and when we lifted our heads to make eye contact and take in the sight of each other we burst out laughing. But it felt cinematic, and when we almost missed our stop and a man in a business suit yelled "Congratulations girls!" as we stepped off the train, it really did feel like a movie.

Inside, it felt like high school all over again—sitting in our designated letter groups, the familiar shuffling of bodies, the quiet murmuring that filled the space. How was high school graduation simultaneously yesterday and a lifetime ago?

As I neared the stage, I looked up and met my parents' eyes. My throat tightened. Not now, not now, not now.

Scattered screams when my name was called. A walk across the stage, a handshake, a degree in hand.

Outside, the sun was warm, and we switched our tassels, we threw our mortarboards in the air—of course, one hit me square in the forehead, leaving a sore bump.

I stood with my best friend, the city skyline behind us. The world, our oyster. Our parents humming in conversation somewhere in the crowd. My graduation teddy tucked under my arm.

I bumped into one of my lecturers, who had influenced a lot of my writing, and I always left a discussion with him feeling like doors had opened in my mind.

He had gestured around at the motion surrounding us, smiling, and quoted Mark Nepo, “The flower doesn’t dream of the bee. It blossoms and the bee comes.”

That night was quiet. Peaceful. Champagne with my parents. The sun setting over Lavender Bay, the green light flickering across the water.

My dad helped me print off some forms and paperworks for maybe submitting for a J1 visa for New York. I know, already on the move, but I’m itching for somewhere new. New York is whispering, and I may be listening intently enough to answer.

I stood on my balcony before crawling into bed, head spinning, feet sore, a round forehead bump and starry eyed. I thought about every panicked moment of the last three years. Every essay, every speech, every project, every film, every edit, every monologue, every argument, every sleepless night. I made myself relive them, almost torturing myself.

And then I leaned my head back toward the vast sky and closed my eyes.

And suddenly, I was weightless.