I sit in my world history class, peering at an array of faces on my screen. All freshmen, classmates speak with an eagerness and a light in their eyes; they're yet to be dulled by the drabness of high school. They're faces, still undeveloped and bright, remind me of children. Given, I probably appear like a sophomore (at the most) to others, but I'm surprised to see the effect of a three-year gap on our appearances. I still distinctly remember being greeted as I entered my second-grade classroom by Ms. Schwarz's guest: a past student who was now a freshman in high school. She stood heads above me, with the face and personality of an adult. Thoughts ran through my head as I looked at her in awe. Will I ever reach high school? How does it feel to be so old and mature? Now thoughts run through my mind as I sit at home, being greeted by high-pitched "hi's" and "hellos" projected through my computer. When did I get so old? Why don't I feel like a
Sabrina Song