My dearly departed,
When I think of words, I think of their parts. This is a goodbye letter, so it should be just that. A good bye. A cheerful ciao. A splendid so long. But this goodbye is far from just good—in fact, it is causing me quite a bit of emotional turmoil. And the word “turmoil,” true to its meaning, lacks a clear etymology. Unlike most English words, we cannot split turmoil down into identifiable parts. Its origin eludes us. I’d argue there is only one emotional turmoil that rivals that of graduating from college—that of not graduating from college.
I began college with you, Class of 2025. Remember? We arrived on campus young and bright-eyed, with masks strapped tight to our faces in the fall of 2021. Still very much in the heyday of the pandemic, Harvard looked different back then. Masks were required in class. When we forgot to complete our weekly COVID-19 testing, we received increasingly threatening emails about being referred to some all-knowing, fear-inspiring body of power called the Community Council. Lamont Cafe and Barker Cafe were urban legends. Weekdays were big introductory lecture classes. Weekends were “wtm tonight?” texts (to no avail, save the occasional dorm party). Everything was easy. I finished my freshman year more in love with you, Class of 2025, and with Harvard than I thought possible.
Then, Class of 2025, we had a breakup. We didn’t go completely no contact, but we should have, because I was still in love with you. I set off on a gap year, and you braved your sophomore year. Like a jealous ex, I obsessed over you. All year, I checked Snap Maps like clockwork, watching your bitmojis scurry from class to class. I deleted social media. I redownloaded it. I deleted it. I redownloaded it. Repeat. I worked. I worked. I worked. I traveled. I missed you.
And then, I came back. When I returned to Harvard after my gap year, you and I were estranged, Class of 2025. Your sophomore year had done a tragic thing—it made you solemn and fragmented. As fresh juniors, everyone stood divided into blocking groups, houses, and final clubs. Your fluidity was a shell of its former self. But of course, I still loved you. I wanted you back, even though I knew things wouldn’t ever be the same.
Since I’ve come back, I have straddled two worlds—you, and the Class of 2026, my new graduating class. Now, my left foot stands firmly entrenched in the mud of ’26. But my right is stuck with you, ’25. Now, as you leave, I feel my entire right leg being ripped away. All I can do is say goodbye—to both you and my leg. But, of course, like any true goodbye letter, this is also a love letter. So, Class of 2025, let us reminisce on our beginnings.
I think it was love at first sight. Or rather, love at first GroupMe. My first connection with you was within days of receiving my acceptance letter, when I joined the Harvard Class of 2025 GroupMe. The chat was filled with glee back then—banter, memes, and a palpable excitement that can only come from just having been accepted into Harvard. Even before meeting each other in person, we were electric.
Our relationship only grew more intense when everyone arrived on campus. Starved for social interaction, we coalesced in a horde in the corner of Harvard Yard some nights, and by the river other nights. One or two real compatriots handed out White Claws from their backpacks. An abundance of Instagram and Snapchat connections were made. Brunch plans. “Where are you from?” Water bottles of liquor were tragically confiscated at the gates to the first-year fling. Tasty basty. Tasty basty. Had to say it twice to pay tribute to the cultural phenomenon that it was. A passing moment in which someone said to me that four years would fly by, and everyone would just leave. The day after hearing that, a mid-therapy crash-out, during which my therapist told me the end was so far away. But I knew it was not. I was right.
My first real unit within you, Class of 2025, maybe the first part of you I really fell for, were my freshman year roommates. The smell of Hunter’s spicy ramen noodles taking over the tiny, beloved shoebox of Weld 38. Yirenny mothering us, cooking and cleaning and scolding and loving. Karla’s deep, infectious laugh and her electric guitar. My first-year roommates became family so quickly and with such ease, I thought things would be that easy forever. I was wrong.
Then, I fell head over heels. I know you remember it too. It was perhaps the most intense and beautiful part of our affair—our first-year musical, “7 Sacrilege Street.” Not to get all theater-kid-reminiscing-about-a-show on you, but this one really was special. As “producer,” a title I still don’t fully understand, I was afforded the opportunity to make a piece of art with you, from you, and of you, Class of 2025. That show taught me the beauty of obsession—obsession with art, with people. At the end of the final performance of “7 Sacrilege Street,” I cried. I cried because I thought perhaps that was the best piece of art I would ever make. I was right.
My whole life, I will be searching for that feeling again. And I know I will never find it—both because it was tied to youth and because it was tied to you, Class of 2025. You are something that is both temporary and forever. That musical was something both temporary and forever.
And of course, together you and I entered this very space we now converse in—the Independent herself. I comped the Independent during my freshman spring alongside our Editor-in-Chief emeritus, Andrew Spielmann ’25. I’d been intent on comping since the Independent’s president emeritus, Eliza Kimball ’25, made a very convincing argument for the publication over a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner in late November of 2021. When Spielmann and I joined, the publication had just under 50 members. It now has just under 150. I am hard-pressed to rank the best decisions I have made so far in college, but comping the Independent certainly sits high on the list. This newspaper has given my words space from then up until now, as I pen this very piece. And here they’ll rest—perhaps temporarily, perhaps forever. Such is art, and such is life.
My gap year did great good for me, but like any old thing that heals, there were side effects. Papercut-sized reminders have cut into my skin ever since. I have agonized over what class year to say in my Harvard intro. I have moped alone in my room, pitying myself, as all my friends attended a strictly seniors-only party. I have sat in total silence while my senior roommates discussed what white dresses they were buying for graduation.
These woes may seem trivial in the grand scheme of things, but it does take a certain type of strength to have one foot in and one foot out of a community. The off-cycle student has toned muscles in this department, ready to perform heavy lifting during moments that expose them as atypical. Today, I will sit on the side and tell rows of graduates when to walk instead of walking alongside them. I will not wear a white dress, but I will wear a smile. For you.
I write this final letter to you perhaps in a whisper, perhaps in a scream. Keep me. Remember me. Let me stay. Think of me as part of you. I like the number 26, but I love the number 25. When you are 18 and starting college, you are Play-Doh. And Class of 2025—I am stuck under your nails. Or at least—you are stuck under mine.
To you, Class of 2025, my social class, my first community at Harvard, my first love, I’ve missed you since I left you in 2022, and I’ll miss you when you leave me at the end of today. Farewell, and remember, when you think of words, think of their parts. Farewell—it is not a goodbye, it is a command. Go out into the world. And fare well.
Hopelessly,
Kayla
Kayla Reifel ’26 (kaylareifel@college.harvard.edu) still sometimes accidentally types Kayla Reifel ’25 when she’s writing these bylines.