Author: seaprepignite

Savannah Stack ‘25

           The rain is tracing down your face, and you smile because you get to experience something you know won’t last forever. That sensation, that moment you experience in time, is a fleeting instant that shall soon come to pass.

           This is September.

           It wasn’t like I wanted it to end. It had to end.

           October comes and goes. It is a weird sensation, slowly losing time knowing there is absolutely nothing a single person can do to keep it from fleeting.

           You carve dates on your brain like a knife into stone. In that instant, you hope to remember such a pleasant day forever. But in the next year, those starred boxes in your calendar roll around, the ones you forgot to erase, providing you with a stinging reminder that such a moment will never be lived again. You are burdened to remember the very things you wish you could forget.

           Here, it is November, December, and January.

           Looking back on what once felt endless to me, leaves me to scrunch my nose and furrow my brows. Thinking what I had was infinite was incredibly naive. There is nothing on this earth that truly lasts forever.

           I didn’t want it to end. Yet it was fated to reach a final page.  

           This is February and March.

           The worst type of pain is not a heart finally shattering, or the day you finally wake up knowing what you have is gone. The worst pain is not the final petal falling off the roses next to your bed, or reading the last page of your favorite novel. The worst pain is the process of watching the thing you love come to an inevitable end, with no way to gauge how much time it has left. It is the pain of choosing to keep space in your heart for something you are well aware won’t last your whole lifetime.

           When a flower sprouts from the ground, it requires a painfully delicate balance to live one more day. The sun and the rain must work together, or else that once tragically stunning plant will soon cease to exist. If there is too much sun, the flower dries out, leaving a shell of what it once was. If there is too much rain, the flower drowns in what it thought it needed to stay alive. Without an alike sense of dedication and intent, the sun and rain kill the flower, even if they are desperately trying to save it.

           I never thought it could end. But there I was on the other side of that door, willing you to come back, waiting for the sound of you knocking down the door. You never did.

           This is April.

           You prepare for this moment for as long as time itself. You don’t close your eyes when you should be sleeping because maybe you can slow down time for just a moment. You fantasize about scenarios of when that anticipated instant finally catches you. What will you do? What do you say? What happens after the end? You prepare, but you’re never ready.

           A tear falls down your face, your dog in your arms. You know he would live longer if you just took him home. But you let them insert the needle and squirt a substance into his veins. A part of you is always going to question if you made the right choice. But maybe it is better to let him go now if you are both bound to suffer either way.

           This is May, June, July, August.

           Heartbreak is an odd thing. There is a physical sensation to it where your heart is repetitively stabbed by an invisible dagger, day in and day out, month after month after month. But then one day you open your eyes, and you barely remember that very person holding the knife.

           Then, just like that, it is September again, but when the rain hits your cheek and leaves you to shiver, it is hard to find that smile. The one that came so naturally last year.

           Maybe, somewhere deep inside me, I knew you wouldn’t last forever. Maybe I knew it hurt more to stay. But I wasn’t ready, so I drew out our ending. I’m sorry.

Beckham King ‘25

           The sound of an old-fashioned phone ringing loudly, echoing across my mind which was not fully conscious yet, but the only call was the one that was waking me up, my alarm. 6:00 am, I looked at my phone only to realize I was late; this was the second time this week I was going to be late to my morning basketball workout for school. I had to rush out of bed, skip breakfast, and speed to school. The workout was hard, and before I knew it my favorite part of the day was already over before the sun had even risen.

           School has been moving lazy; it’s the earliest part of the year, and even Halloween is still three weeks away. Life seems dull, boring, and there isn’t much to occupy myself with other than basketball and the occasional homework assignment. I was just waiting for something to happen, waiting for a change of pace. For things to finally pick up the pace again.

           One day I was enjoying my time at recess, the next I was on vacation, and before I could know it, it was the next year; grade after grade I am growing up, I don’t really realize it though because I am just having so much fun, not caring what comes next or what has happened but rather being pulled through time and instead of fighting it, savoring and enjoying it. But why must everything amazing move so fast? I am not sure what to think, everyone in the crowd cheering for me and my teammates, parents all screaming, whistles blowing, and yet I can’t hear anything, I’m not thinking, no stress, no care in the world other than winning. The biggest basketball game of my life and the only thing I can feel is euphoria, as if I have taken a drug, except it was doing the thing I love most.

           I am making shots I usually don’t consistently make, playing better defense than usual, using moves I’ve never even tried, and yet doing it all with no fear but unwavering confidence despite the 1000 mph winds of pressure raining down on me. I am in a trance, an unstoppable rhythm.

           Once we win I am drawn back to reality with amazing excitement for me and my teammates and all I can do is celebrate. It feels like 100 years’ worth of amazement in one moment. The first and only thought then enters my mind, “why can’t everything be done in this state of mind? Why can’t everything be at this perfect pace?”

Blake Koehler ‘25

           In my opinion, winter is the most interesting season of the year, yet also the calmest and most boring season. I see winter as the season to put in the hard work, the season that you can put in your blood, sweat, and tears to accomplish your goals. It can be very monotonous at times to do the same thing every day, not to mention the gloomy weather that makes you feel as if you have no hope left in your soul. A trend I have been seeing on social media recently is going on your “winter arc.” This means you will try as hard as you can to accomplish your goals during the winter and stay away from things that might be dragging you down. Winter is interesting to me because I find myself alone with a lot of time to reflect on myself.

           Spring is my least favorite season of the year. Most of spring is still quite cold but never enough to cause a raging blizzard. I see spring as a lesser version of winter. Spring is like the end of a cross-country race going in with one mile left ready to give it your all to finish. One thing that I do like about spring is how as the days go on the weather starts to get warmer and warmer. Every year during this time I remember my days in elementary school and how they would always say, “April shows bring May flowers.” As the school year is coming to an end, running low on gas, each day feels like we are getting one step closer to the finish line. Once you get there, you can cool off and take a deep breath knowing you have finished the race.

           For me, summer is a time to relax. A time to bask in the endless sunlight and take in the fresh air. It is a time of fun from the chaos of beaches, barbecues, and fireworks. Time feels slippery during the summer, melting away like popsicles on the pavement. From vacations to summer football camp, there are always places to be in the hot weather that will burn you to a crisp. Summer is loud and there is always something new and exciting on the way. It’s as if the sun’s intensity demands a version of myself I’m not always ready to give. Even with all its brightness, there is a shadow of exhaustion from the school year that lingers, reminding me that balance is necessary.

           Fall starts out loud, but as it goes on, it gets progressively quieter. I associate fall with American football: in the beginning, everyone is excited for the season to start, but as the season progresses I find myself losing interest. The crispness of fall air feels like an alarm clock going off after the lazy days of summer. Fall can set us back on our feet. Fall feels like a time of preparation, a middle ground between summer chaos and winter solitude. Fall holds October, the spookiest and scariest season of the year. In the fall I enjoy making my way through a corn maze without taking the map to guide me. After feasting at Thanksgiving dinner, the last leaf falls from the tree outside your house.

Marcus Kwon ‘25

           The sound of a basketball bouncing on pavement is like music. Rhythmic, steady, imperfect. The echo carries through my memory like a song I’ve always known. I’m 18 now, but I can still see my 11-year-old self chasing that ball down the driveway, the hoop bent slightly down from dunks by kids with bigger dreams and stronger arms than mine.

           I’ve always loved basketball, not for the glory but for the reliable sport. It started with neighborhood games. My dribble was weak, my shot flatter than it should’ve been, but I showed up. That’s what mattered. Kids I’d never spoken to became teammates. Each pass and rebound stitched us closer. Winning didn’t matter as much as laughing together after a bad play or cheering for someone else’s good one.

           By middle school, I knew I wasn’t going to be an NBA star. Genetics dealt me a hand too short and too slow, and my heart, though full of passion, wasn’t ready to endure the grind of endless drills and conditioning. I’d watch my friends sweat and hustle, their eyes set on varsity dreams, while I lingered on the sidelines, happy to shoot hoops during lunch breaks and pick-up games.

           There’s a kind of beauty in knowing your limits. I stopped trying to measure up to the impossible and started playing for the joy of it. Each jump shot was a small victory, each layup a moment to savor. The court became my sanctuary, the orange rim a quiet therapist that never judged. High school brought more struggles, responsibilities, and things to worry about. Stress mounted with each exam, each expectation. Some nights, it felt like the walls were closing in, like there wasn’t enough time in the day. Sometimes I would wish that time would stop and give me a break. But then I’d grab a ball and go shoot around. The troubles of the day faded into the background, replaced by the simplicity of the game. A basketball is the most reliable thing in the world—you bounce it, and it always comes back. It doesn’t argue with you or complain, and it always listens.

           I met people there too. Strangers who became friends, if only for a night. We didn’t need to know each other’s names. We just played. They taught me new moves, and I taught them my old ones. There’s something universal about a sport that needs no words, just a ball, a hoop, and a willingness to play. 

           Even now, basketball is my constant. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never be the fastest or the strongest on the court. It doesn’t matter that my jump shot sometimes veers left or that I can’t dunk. What matters is the freedom I feel when I step onto that pavement, the way the world seems to shrink to the size of a basketball, and nothing else exists but me and the game. I’m not playing to win trophies or make headlines. I’m playing because it reminds me of who I am. A kid who’s still learning, still growing, still chasing that ball down the driveway. And that, I think, is enough.

Jimmy Nguyen ‘25

Soft, slushy, snow. Snow is like a once in a lifetime experience in Seattle. It snows once every blue moon; that is how rare it is, sort of like a random Pokémon card that you unwrapped, trashing it away, not realizing that it was an extremely rare card that cost a pretty penny.

***

The cold nights sipping hot cocoa, a heavy weight filled with boredom dropping on the computer mouse repeating over and over and over until the show “Snowdrop” caught my eye. I dropped into the first episode and realized that I might’ve dropped too far down when I became disinterested immediately after the first episode.

***

Snow. I remember the feeling in the winter of 7th grade seeing the shiny, sparkly, almost ethereal droplets of white balls and the occasional snowflake, before any people dropped like snowflakes due to COVID-19. The COVID-19 virus affected everyone no matter what. Family members departing, social events decreasing, school interrupted. This was truly the worst. As I reflect on this moment, was the snow a gift to Seattle before COVID-19 spread throughout the whole city?

***

In Bruges. Two hitmen, Ray and Ken, fled to Bruges, Belgium after a hit mission on a priest was successful but accidentally killed a little child in the process as well. Ray was the one that shot. The boss (we’ll call him Harry) wasn’t too happy about it, because it broke his code on not harming any children. Harry wanted Ray in Bruges during Christmas time to have a happy moment before his inevitable demise, dropped by the crew of hitmen. Through the final moments of the movie, it cuts to a scene. Bang, bang: Harry chases Ray while Ray stumbles to get away; it was snowing, a contrast between the hot, steaming blood and deep exhalation of each breath Ray took, to ultimately having Ray being shot in the back several times.

***

This is all over the place, I thought; as I looked out to the road and saw solid, hard and compact snow brushed up to each side of the roadway, I realized that maybe I didn’t want snow and that I was entranced by the magical idea of snow. It proved to me that it is merely a nuisance to everyday life; when the roads get icy and mushy, it forces us to stay in quarantine against the world. I’m realizing that it was uncommon in Seattle, for sure, but is it a pretty penny, or just a regular nickel?

Fiona Bianchi ‘25

           I love winter; I love whatever season I am living in. I love the wind, the cold, the rain, ice, snow, and darkness; I love the quiet. I love the dark because it makes me enjoy what little light there is all the more; I love the quiet; it makes me excited for spring when the birds sing again. The cold allows me to bundle up and I can enjoy nice warm drinks in the coziest of places better than if it were summer or any other season.

           You say you hate the winter, hate the cold, the dark, the rain, and quiet. Sometimes I wonder if only you say that to be agreeable with the people you are around. I see you find yourself longing for the next season for all the things you can do in it and never enjoying the one you’re in. You say you hate how you can never warm up, never dry off, never get cozy. You say you miss hearing the birds, looking for them wherever we go.

           I love Christmas because of the gifts and jokes my household family gives to each other, and the empty time I can fill with them over the break.

           You say you hate Christmas because your larger family never gets along long enough to be together for an evening. You hate all the extra time because you are afraid to waste it on things you fear you won’t enjoy. You don’t know what to do with yourself.

           I love the snow, and you love the snow, yet you still say you hate winter. You are sad for the birds and say you miss them, but once they come back in spring you get annoyed when they wake you up with their shrieks, melodies, and greetings.

           I hate school and its rigid schedules, conflicts, and petty disturbances, but you, you love school; you love its schedule and assignments that give you things to do, keep you on a routine, and keep you talking to the same people; you like the repetition. I hate it; I hate it in all its lumbering hindrance, but I love you.