HiveComb

It was the last day of school for the year. December, as usual was dry and sunny, the kind of weather that makes you walk faster without realizing it. My friend and I hurried to school, hoping to write the test scheduled by our HOD for 9 a.m. When we were told the test wouldn’t hold, a quiet relief spread through the class. Most of us hadn’t prepared enough, and for once, we were grateful for the disappointment.

Instead of going home, we stayed back for a short class meeting to talk about our final year projects and FYP week. There was excitement in the room, genuine excitement. We had finally made it to our final year. We talked about how it was going to be: the costumes, the parties, picnics, thanksgiving services, and all the celebrations we had imagined for years. People shared amazing ideas and one after another, great suggestions were adopted.

I enjoyed the atmosphere. Everyone seemed happy, open, and willing to contribute. Moments like that were rare for us. Most days were filled with lectures, assignments, tests, and serious conversations about grades and deadlines.

“We need some people to form a planning committee,” said the course representative.

What followed was mild chaos. Almost everyone wanted to be a part of the planning committee. No one wanted to be left out of planning something this important. Eventually, we agreed that there had to be criteria.

“You must have a skill or ideas to contribute,” I said, and the class agreed.

We chose people who were good with graphics and design, content creation, and organization. We selected those who were hardworking, social, and accommodating to handle welfare. Those who had planned events before were chosen, along with people who were fashionable and full of ideas for the celebrations.

Some people who felt they deserved to be on the committee were left out, with apologies.

That moment reminded me that whatever we do is noticed by others. Who we truly are can often be felt or seen, unless you’re very introverted. In my class, we all know the brain boxes, the friendly ones, the difficult ones. We know who is hospitable, who is creative, and who keeps to themselves

These traits that may seem insignificant can be very rewarding in the long run. Years later, a colleague may choose to partner with you simply because of how they perceived you in the past. My friends and I chit-chat about this and reached the same conclusion.

“Aside from looking good, it’s very advisable to be valuable,” Jubilant, my closest friend in the department, said.

“Definitely,” I replied. “Being nonchalant can kill opportunities.”

Then the departmental president stood up and reminded us of a colleague we had lost two weeks earlier. The mood in the room changed instantly. The excitement faded into a heavy silence. She has been with us since our first year, calm, healthy, and always full of life. No one imagined she would leave so soon. Her closest friends were the most affected. They had lived together and planned to graduate together.

She wasn’t the first colleague we had lost, but her's felt much more touching.

“Let’s observe three minutes of silence as our final mark of respect for Precious,” the president said.

And everyone went quiet.

In that silence, I thought about life and how fickle it is. Anyone can leave at any time. A person can make plans today and be gone tomorrow. I decided right there to take my friendships seriously, to apologize when I’m wrong, and to live at peace with others. In a world like this, care and love are not optional but they are necessary.

When the silence ended, we couldn't return to our previous mood. The silence lingered, and was later softened by a brief prayer, before the meeting finally came to a close.

That was our last day of school for the year; joyful, sad, and memorable.