“I can’t wait to come back next year and continue our work. Who knew I’d actually end up excited about therapy? Life comes at you fast.” Jennifer suddenly grows weary, glances up at the clock, and looks directly into my eyes.

“You know, they tell you not to get attached when you do this kind of work. I am here to fill a role and you are my patient. It never works like that for me, though. I carry you all in my heart like a mother hen afraid to release her young before they are ready. I just want you to know it has been a tremendous joy to work with you, to witness your progress. I have no doubt you will continue to blossom in extraordinary ways.”

“Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye? Won’t you be here next year?”

“I only work with first-year students.”

“But how am I supposed to

find my way without you? Where will you go?”

“Wherever I’m needed next,” Yoda says. “I’m not sure yet.”

“I haven’t learned everything!”

“You’ve learned enough for this leg of the journey.”

“You can’t go,” I say, dropping my head in sadness.

“Nothing can be held forever here. Where you end is not where you start. That’s what matters. The space between. We had a good in-between space, you and I. Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime. In another life, another reality. I would very much like that.”

Dean Harrison smiles the way you do when you know you won’t see someone again. It’s a particular expression that sears the heart and pains the soul. We were together for a little while, but our time has passed. It happens so quickly, coming to love another person. One day you are strangers, the next they are part of you. Everyone you meet becomes part of you in some way, big or small. All those people define the tapestry of your experience in this world.

I lunge around the desk and hug Dean Harrison. I hold on for too long, but she doesn’t force me to let go. She wraps her arms back around me this time. I walk silently toward the door, my body heavy with grief. I fight the tears, but they fall anyways. I am alone again, I think to myself.

“You are never alone,” Dean Harrison says. “One more thing.” Her voice cracks. “May the Force be with you, always.”

Manda Panda wears black sunglasses during our final moments together to hide the sadness in her eyes. But her voice, which keeps cracking, gives it away.

“Let’s take one last picture,” she says. She angles the camera high above. Our young, still innocent but matured faces find the lens once more.