Fourth year, “Yes year”

The girl moving into my Albert St. bedroom is buying all my furniture. I bundled it together for a bargain deal—my bed, desk, chair, and dresser—all for a few hundred dollars. It’s what I did almost three years ago, when my housemates all drew straws for rooms, and I ended up on the top floor with slanted ceilings.

As I count down my final days in Kingston, I watch it all begin again—new faces moving into my house, new names on the lease, but the same familiar rhythm.

***

Fourth year has been bittersweet in nature, a constant push and pull of holding on and letting go. I painting the picnic table blue outside on the lawn at the beginning of September. I was still tan, blonde, hopeful, and freckled. With no real assignments yet, I brainstormed a to-do list for my last few months in Kingston.

My friends and I called it a “Yes year”—we would say Yes to everything.

And so, I have. Or at least, I’ve tried to. I wanted to say Yes to every Stage Rage, ing how it used to be the place to go on Thursday nights. But now it’s packed with second years—because, of course, that’s where I went in second year, too. Instead, I turn to laid-back favourites like Brass, where my friend’s boyfriend is a bouncer, my classmates work behind the bar, and the guy from my first-year intramural team hosts trivia.

The trials and tribulations of first-year dining hall food options and fake ID stress feel so distant now that I’m old. Well, maybe I’m not old. But I’m definitely older.

Now, I feel a quiet sense of urgency with everything I do. I intentionally take the shortcut by my crush’s house, a quiet habit of curiosity, and can’t help but wonder how this will translate in a bigger city.

For four years, I’ve let proximity do the heavy lifting in my love life, justifying my hesitation to make the first move as playing the long game. But now, it’s Game Seven. The long game is running out of time.

***

Intramural championships have turned into the Olympics.

The yellow t-shirt, once just a sign of casual victory, is now the most coveted item on campus. Injuries and weekly commitments are set aside for high-stakes playoffs and career-ending championship games.

The Ski and Snowboard Club elections are finally happening, and I watch the turnover unfold in front of my eyes as I edit my transition manual in the slivers of time between final assignments and graduation-themed formals.

It’s finally time to hand over the group chats, the endless e-mails, and the all-consuming joy and stress that comes with this kind responsibility. As I watch the younger executives step into new roles, I feel an overwhelming sense of satisfaction as they take their place at the head of the table just like I did a year ago. I see pieces of myself in each of them—the same excitement, the same nervous energy, and the same desire to be a part of something bigger than themselves.

And then there’s us—the ones who built this, who brought the club back to life nearly three years ago. We sent those first e-mails and paid those first deposits, standing beside each other wondering if anyone would even show up. It’s safe to say the club has grown into something far bigger than any of us could have ever imagined.

Soon, we’ll stand beside each other one last time and take a good look at what we’re about to leave behind. But that day isn’t quite here yet—there’s still a few more meetings to run and questions to answer. And so, for now, I’ll hold on for just a little longer.

***

The first warm days of March feel like a drug. Sitting on my porch outside allows for a rotation of people to stop by throughout the day, all enjoying the weather.

I remind myself how much I’m going to miss this, living in a university town with friends whose lives intersect in ways that feel impossible anywhere else. And I remind myself how much I’m not going to miss this, too—when meeting someone new uncovers a web of connections, ex-situationships, and unsolicited warnings.

On Tuesday night, it was my final turn to take out the garbage. I paraded through the house to grab trash bags from bathrooms and recycling sprinkled on each floor. I gagged at the compost, broke down shipping boxes, and schlepped it all out to the sidewalk one last time.

I begged my first-year floormate, turned housemate, turned best friend, to load the extra trash bags into the back of my car. We drove over and tossed them into the dump behind Harkness Hall because it’s what we’ve always done. We snickered as we pulled away, still amused that after all these years, we’ve never been caught.

***

I’m happy to report I followed through on my promise, and this year has absolutely been a “Yes year.”

But a “Yes year” isn’t just about my own choices—instead it’s a mindset, one that defines so many of our experiences in fourth year: it’s saying Yes to trying the Cambodian restaurant that your friend won’t shut up about, and Yes to last minute tickets for Tuesday Dollar Beers. It’s saying Yes to an appointment at Student Wellness, because you know first-hand what it’s like to waste an entire day in the hellish waiting rooms at KGH and Hotel Dieu.

It’s saying Yes to a sleepover at your friend’s place, even though you can see your own house from her front porch, just because sharing a bed makes you both feel a little less lonely. It’s saying Yes to the next step, the big internship, and the uncertainty of it all.

It’s saying Yes and showing up to your housemate’s poster presentation, watching her stand beside the project she’s dedicated the last year to. You brought her fresh banana bread from the kitchen to her desk while she worked tirelessly into the night; you chatted with her by the door as she rushed to and from the lab to finish up her research; you tell her you’re proud of her—because you genuinely, overwhelmingly are. You wonder if you should have done a thesis, but it’s too late for that now.

***

Four years of seemingly endless work is coming to an end, and it feels as if school’s been put on the back burner. Opting for tanning on the roof with Aperol Spritzes is easier than going to your elective these days. Casual conversations have evolved to fit the times—no longer about summer jobs and travel plans, but instead, “what the hell are you doing after this?”

My friend texts me mid-class that he has another law school offer, this time with a huge scholarship, and I smile at him from across the lecture hall. He’ll grow up to wear fancy suits and handle high-profile cases. But to me, he’ll always be the guy who strutted down the runway at the Project Red charity fashion show with hearts drawn around his nipples.

Conversations of long-distance and plans for meetups in the fall float around in the air, but it all feels impossible to wrap my head around. These are the people I see every day. I run into them at CoGro and walk with them to Campus One Stop. I sit next to them at the library, sleep on their beer-stained couches, and reluctantly drive them to and from the Megabus station.

***

I have my last haircut booked at my favourite salon on Princess St. Two more concerts at The Mansion, and three shifts left at work. I should probably book one final dentist appointment while I still have AMS insurance and figure out what to play on my last radio show at CFRC.

I’m packing up my room now, deciding what I’ll leave behind for the girl inheriting the space from me. The desk lamp I never really liked, the plastic shoe rack that’s seen better days, the surplus of hangers in my closet—she can have those for free. These are the things that will be easy to leave behind.

As for now, I’ll continue to put my stuff into boxes and keep asking my friends if they’ll stick around until May 1, when all our leases run out.

And they have to say Yes. Yes, to lingering for a little longer than we should in the houses we’ve turned into homes.

They have to say Yes because this is our “Yes year.”

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senior year

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