Today was Brendon’s last day.
And I swear
nothing felt real about it.
The halls were still loud,
people still laughing,
teachers still talking like normal—
but all I could think about was
after today,
he’s not gonna be here anymore.
And the thing that hurts the most is
we didn’t even get one last greenhouse day.
The seniors had field day,
we had a sub,
and everybody was stuck inside.
So the greenhouse just sat out there empty.
And now I can’t stop thinking about
how the last time we sat in there together,
I didn’t know it was the last time.
I didn’t know one random day
would end up becoming a memory
I’d replay over and over.
Because that greenhouse was never really about smoking,
or skipping time,
or doing dumb ****
It was about him being there.
The heat trapped in the plastic walls,
both of us sitting there laughing at random stuff,
talking about nothing important—
and somehow those became
the best parts of my freshman year.
He’s more than just a friend to me.
He’s like the older brother I never had.
The kind of person
who checks on you without making it obvious.
The kind of person
who notices when you’re too quiet.
Even when we were high,
he’d still look over and go
“you good?”
Like it was automatic.
Like making sure I was okay
was just part of who he was.
And I don’t think he realizes
how much that meant to me.
Today, before he left,
I dapped him up
and handed him the letter.
That white envelope
with “Happy Graduation” written across it.
And I told him,
“don’t open it till later
so nobody sees it.”
Because I knew if he opened it right there
everything would suddenly feel too real.
He just nodded,
calm as always.
Lowkey.
Chill.
Like he didn’t know
he was holding a goodbye in his hand.
And then he walked away.
And that was it.
No movie moment.
No huge goodbye speech.
Just the sound of the hallway,
a dap up,
a white envelope,
and the weird feeling
of watching someone important leave your life
while everybody else keeps moving like normal.
Later on,
I ended up in the bathroom with my friends.
And I cried a little.
Not a full breakdown.
Just quiet tears
while trying to laugh it off at the same time.
Because I didn’t know
one person graduating
could hurt this much.
Not because he’s gone forever—
just because school won’t feel the same anymore.
The greenhouse won’t feel the same.
The halls won’t feel the same.
Everything’s still gonna be there—
except him.
And I think that’s the saddest part.
Next Friday at 7PM
he’s gonna walk across that stage,
everybody cheering for him—
and I’ll probably be cheering too.
But part of me will still be stuck in today.
Stuck in that hallway.
That dap up.
That white envelope.
Stuck wishing
I had just one more normal day with him.
One more greenhouse day.
One more laugh.
One more “you good?”
Because sometimes
the people who become part of your everyday life
don’t realize how empty everything feels
after they leave.
And maybe years from now
he won’t remember this hallway,
or that greenhouse,
or the envelope in his hand—
but I will.
Because some goodbyes
don’t break your heart all at once.
They do it slowly.
Every time you walk past the place
someone used to be. Next week, the greenhouse will still be there… just missing the person who made it feel alive.
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 4:43 PM UTC
Today was Brendon’s last day.
And I swear
nothing felt real about it.
The halls were still loud,
people still laughing,
teachers still talking like normal—
but all I could think about was
after today,
he’s not gonna be here anymore.
And the thing that hurts the most is
we didn’t even get one last greenhouse day.
The seniors had field day,
we had a sub,
and everybody was stuck inside.
So the greenhouse just sat out there empty.
And now I can’t stop thinking about
how the last time we sat in there together,
I didn’t know it was the last time.
I didn’t know one random day
would end up becoming a memory
I’d replay over and over.
Because that greenhouse was never really about smoking,
or skipping time,
or doing dumb ****
It was about him being there.
The heat trapped in the plastic walls,
both of us sitting there laughing at random stuff,
talking about nothing important—
and somehow those became
the best parts of my freshman year.
He’s more than just a friend to me.
He’s like the older brother I never had.
The kind of person
who checks on you without making it obvious.
The kind of person
who notices when you’re too quiet.
Even when we were high,
he’d still look over and go
“you good?”
Like it was automatic.
Like making sure I was okay
was just part of who he was.
And I don’t think he realizes
how much that meant to me.
Today, before he left,
I dapped him up
and handed him the letter.
That white envelope
with “Happy Graduation” written across it.
And I told him,
“don’t open it till later
so nobody sees it.”
Because I knew if he opened it right there
everything would suddenly feel too real.
He just nodded,
calm as always.
Lowkey.
Chill.
Like he didn’t know
he was holding a goodbye in his hand.
And then he walked away.
And that was it.
No movie moment.
No huge goodbye speech.
Just the sound of the hallway,
a dap up,
a white envelope,
and the weird feeling
of watching someone important leave your life
while everybody else keeps moving like normal.
Later on,
I ended up in the bathroom with my friends.
And I cried a little.
Not a full breakdown.
Just quiet tears
while trying to laugh it off at the same time.
Because I didn’t know
one person graduating
could hurt this much.
Not because he’s gone forever—
just because school won’t feel the same anymore.
The greenhouse won’t feel the same.
The halls won’t feel the same.
Everything’s still gonna be there—
except him.
And I think that’s the saddest part.
Next Friday at 7PM
he’s gonna walk across that stage,
everybody cheering for him—
and I’ll probably be cheering too.
But part of me will still be stuck in today.
Stuck in that hallway.
That dap up.
That white envelope.
Stuck wishing
I had just one more normal day with him.
One more greenhouse day.
One more laugh.
One more “you good?”
Because sometimes
the people who become part of your everyday life
don’t realize how empty everything feels
after they leave.
And maybe years from now
he won’t remember this hallway,
or that greenhouse,
or the envelope in his hand—
but I will.
Because some goodbyes
don’t break your heart all at once.
They do it slowly.
Every time you walk past the place
someone used to be. Next week, the greenhouse will still be there… just missing the person who made it feel alive.
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