March 3
1061 Words
Today felt heavier than the past two days.
Not because of lectures.
Not because of assignments.
But because of people.
It’s only the third day of resumption, but campus is already settling into its rhythm. The excitement of reunion is fading. Everyone is slipping back into routine
lectures, deadlines, quick lunches, rushed conversations.
This morning, I woke up thinking about how final year is not just the end of my law journey.
It’s the end of certain friendships too.
I didn’t expect to see them today.
We used to be inseparable in 200 level me, Dami, Rachael, and Kunle. People even had a name for us. “The Library Four.” We practically lived there. Same corner table. Same noisy arguments about cases. Same group chats buzzing at midnight.
Back then, our phones never stopped vibrating.
There was our main w******p group Law Legends (dramatic, I know). Then a second one because the first got “too serious.” Then private side chats for gossip. We sent voice notes analyzing lectures like we were already senior advocates. We shared PDFs. Memes about lecturers. Screenshots of confusing questions.
We told each other everything.
Or at least, it felt like everything.
Today, I saw Dami first.
She was walking toward the faculty building with two other girls I didn’t recognize. She looked the same confident stride, always slightly ahead of whoever she’s walking with. For a second, I almost called her name the way I used to.
Instead, we made eye contact.
We smiled.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
And that was it.
We kept walking.
No hug.
No dramatic catch-up.
No “How have you been?” that leads to a 30-minute conversation.
Just a polite, almost careful exchange.
I don’t even know when things shifted.
Maybe it was 300 level when courses got harder and everyone started forming study groups based on convenience. Maybe it was 400 level when internships, different schedules, and personal growth quietly rearranged our priorities.
Or maybe friendships don’t break loudly.
Maybe they thin out.
Like fabric worn over time.
Later in the afternoon, I saw Rachael near the faculty notice board. She was laughing with someone, holding her phone up to show a message. That used to be us huddled over a screen, dissecting everything from class announcements to relationship drama.
We hugged this time.
But it was the kind of hug that’s more memory than present.
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Good,” I said. “You?”
“Fine.”
We both smiled.
There were a hundred things we could have said.
We didn’t say them.
As I walked away, I remembered our old online group chats.
I checked the Law Legends group tonight.
The last message was from eight months ago.
Someone had sent “Happy new month 🎉” and only two people responded.
Before that, the messages were spaced out. Random forwarded notes. A reminder about clearance. Nothing personal.
No more midnight breakdowns.
No more shared voice notes.
No more “Are you in class yet?”
No more “Did you understand that lecture???”
It’s strange how something that once felt permanent can slowly fade without announcement.
We didn’t fight.
No betrayal.
No dramatic fallout.
We just… drifted.
Maybe final year makes you notice these things more because you know time is limited. You start mentally counting what you’re taking with you and what you’re leaving behind.
During lunch break today, I sat alone under the tree near the faculty. Not lonely just observing. Groups gathered in clusters. Some people looked exactly like they did years ago same friendships, same dynamics. Others, like me, floated between circles.
I think growth rearranges people.
We are not who we were in 200 level.
Back then, we bonded over shared confusion and survival. Now, everyone is more defined. More independent. More focused on individual paths.
Kunle passed by me later in the day.
“Final year,” he said, smiling like we share a private joke.
“Finally,” I replied.
He paused for a second, like he wanted to say more. Then someone called him, and he left.
That’s how most of our interactions are now.
Almost conversations.
Unfinished.
In class, I tried to focus, but my mind kept drifting to old memories. Study sessions that turned into gist marathons. The time we all failed a surprise test and swore we’d sue the lecturer jokingly. The way we used to plan post-graduation dreams like they were guaranteed to include all of us.
“After law school, we’ll rent offices close to each other.”
“We’ll still talk every day.”
“We won’t change.”
We were so sure.
Maybe we believed proximity equals permanence.
But proximity ends.
And permanence requires effort.
I’m not angry.
Just aware.
Aware that seasons shift.
Aware that not all friendships are meant to follow you into every phase.
This evening, I scrolled through old pictures. Screenshots of our video calls during COVID. Group selfies in the library. Blurry photos taken after exams where we looked exhausted but proud.
We looked younger.
Not just physically.
Lighter.
Back then, the future felt far away.
Now, it’s here.
And it’s pulling us in different directions.
I wonder if they feel it too.
Or maybe they adjusted earlier than I did.
Campus today felt full, but also slightly fragmented. Everyone walking with purpose. Conversations more intentional. Laughter shorter, like there’s somewhere else to be.
Maybe final year does that.
It narrows your focus.
Makes you protective of your time.
I don’t think we stopped caring about each other.
I think we just started caring about survival more.
Tonight, I’m not sad exactly.
Just reflective.
Friendships in university are intense. They feel lifelong because you share stress, deadlines, hunger, ambition. You see each other at your worst no makeup, no sleep, no money. You share notes and secrets and snacks.
But intensity doesn’t guarantee eternity.
Sometimes, people are chapters.
Important ones.
Necessary ones.
But still chapters.
March 3.
Third day of resumption.
Beginning of the end of my law journey.
And maybe also the quiet closing of certain friendships.
Not with noise.
Not with anger.
Just with distance.
We still smile.
We still wave.
We still say “Hey.”
But the group chats are silent now.
And somehow, that says everything.
- Writer
