Today I was sitting at the piano at music school. This is my last year studying here. The lesson had already ended, but the teacher and I spoke for another 10 minutes like old friends, and I suddenly realized that in three months my story with the music school would end, which meant that I would not see her again the next year. Well, I suppose, I would come to that school a few more times just to see her, but then it will eventually stop. New people will appear in life, and more and more problems - there will be no time to return to the old city, to the music school near the old house, which I attended for five years and at the beginning I hoped to quit everything because nothing worked. She wrote me letters of recommendation for UWC two times, both of which I got rejected, but the second time I went further than the first, and met my current best friends, so I didn't lose. On the contrary, this is my small victory.

I have changed a lot of schools, but the teachers in my life meant a lot. I remember a teacher from the sixth grade who constantly put me under pressure, and demanded something that twelve-year-old I could not understand. Seventeen-year-old I understand that she demanded perseverance from me. I had a good mind, but just then I did not understand what to do with that mind and why I needed good grades. Transitional age.

There was a teacher I adored. She made me love the dietician turns and all the features of the Ukrainian language; I brought her books that I loved, and she read them so we could discuss the plot later. I visited her once or twice, but now I don't know if she works at that school, and whether she teaches as she taught five years ago. Another history teacher is tough and straightforward, but she gave me knowledge. Most likely, she does not even remember me, but I wonder if she would like my scientific works on history.

I'm sad that people are leaving. Sometimes I am leaving because, just like all people, I am growing up. That's why I often don't want to grow up, but no one can stop this process. Twelve-year-old me, who had just begun to learn to analyze the world through the prism of teenage rebellion, would not have believed seventeen-year-old me that I would miss the school and the teachers from whom I had previously wanted them to get rid of me. I often think that if there was a time machine, I would go back to high school, become more confident, cry less, and not make mistakes, but Elon Musk has not yet invented such a technique, so I accept that all the small and big mistakes, tantrums because of grades, tears, happy and sad moments made me who I am now.