I didn’t expect to enjoy it this much. Didn’t expect to care. Yet, here I am, already missing it before it’s even over. They’ll move on to whatever’s next, and I’ll… well, who knows. But not this. Not their noise and their daft questions and the way their faces lit up when they realised a Mars bar wrapper could be art.
It’s been an emotionally brutal sort of week, and this feels like the final twist of the knife.
“Right, you lot,” I say, holding up a stack of printer paper. “End-of-course awards. No groaning — these are the ones that matter.”
That gets their attention. Heads lift, chatter dies down.
“Don’t look so worried. No one’s getting graded. These are the proper awards. Prestigious. Coveted. Possibly worth millions on eBay one day.”
Lola claps dramatically. “Like the Oscars?”
“Better than the Oscars,” I say. “For a start, these are hand-drawn masterpieces, not golden statues. Limited edition. One of one. You’ll tell your grandkids about this day.”
They’re grinning now, leaning forward, and, for a second, I’m gutted all over again that this is the last time I’ll have them hanging on my words.
I hold up the first certificate. “The award for Most Dramatic Squat While Taking a Photo… goes to Lacey. Honestly, my knees ache just watching you.”
The room erupts. Lacey hides her face, laughing, and I tuck the image away — another moment to keep.
“Next, the award forStrongest Argument With a Lens Cap: Nathan. You nearly had a fistfight with it last week.”
Nathan pumps his fist in the air, grinning. The class cheers louder than they need to, and I realise they’re making the most of it too. They know this is the end.
I rattle through the rest:Most Likely to Shout at a Pigeon(Amir),Most Creative Way to Fall Over While Framing a Shot(Chloe),Lifetime Achievement in Accidentally Photographing Your Own Thumb(Aiden, who bows like royalty). Each one gets bigger laughs, and each laugh feels like a bloody stitch pulling tighter in my chest.
By the time I hand outBest Use of Blur to Make an Entire Football Team Look Like Ghosts(Hayley, obviously), they’re howling. And me? I’m laughing, too, but also already mourning the silence I’ll have tomorrow.
And here’s the thing — they love it. Not the certificates, which are scrawled in Sharpie and already creased, but the fact I’ve been watching. Really watching. Noticing the quirks nobody else would bother with.
Mia, who barely speaks above a whisper, clutches hers —Best Photo of Woodgrain that Looked Like a Mountain Range.She’s glowing, cheeks pink, and for once she’s not hiding behind her hair. That one gets me the most. She’ll probably forget me in a year, but I’ll remember this look for a long time.
I lean back against the desk, forcing a grin I half mean, half don’t. “Look, you’ve all been brilliant. You’ve proved you can find a story anywhere, even in a Mars bar wrapper. Keep doing that and you’ll never be bored.”
Declan clears his throat pointedly, trying not to smile. “And don’t forget the mobile phone policy when you leave.”
Groans ripple around the room. I laugh with them, though there’s a lump stuck in my throat.
“Alright. Off you go. And remember — if you ever get famous, I expect free tickets to whatever nonsense you end up doing.”
Chairs scrape back, bags sling over shoulders, and the usual stampede for the door begins. But, instead of the normal chaos, they pause.
“Thanks, sir,” Chloe says first, casual but with a smile that reaches her eyes.
“Yeah, thanks,” Aiden adds, lifting his certificate like it’s proof. “This was… fun.”
One by one they echo it, voices overlapping — Amir, Lacey, even Nathan muttering a sheepish, “Cheers, sir.”
Mia lingers just long enough to tuck her certificate into her bag, whispering a quiet, “Thank you,” before slipping out with the others.
It catches me off guard. Teenagers aren’t exactly famous for their gratitude. And yet, here they are, thanking me as if I’ve actually given them something worth keeping.
The door swings shut and the silence that follows feels deafening. I swallow against the lump in my throat, staring at the empty desks, and think of Sharpie-scrawled certificates clutched in bags on their way out into the world.
Maybe I did alright after all.
“You handled that well,” Declan says, stepping out from his post at the back. His tone is lighter than usual, almost approving.
I huff a laugh. “Did I? Felt like chaos with a side of Sharpie.”
