End of Education: That Last Bell Feeling

Can we be terrified and pleased at the same time?

Sam stood by the green school gate, propped against a wall, pretending to check his phone. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He pinched the skin on his thigh through his trouser pocket, hard, trying to stop the tears falling. If anyone saw him crying, especially his mates, he’d never live it down.

He watched a group of the arty kids walking in, arms slung around each other, laughing easily. There was something in their closeness that stung. They moved in and out of affection like it was second nature, no judgment. Sam felt a flicker of envy. He was one of the sporty lads. Footballers didn’t cry. Or hug off the pitch.

It was the last day of school.

He and his friends had been counting it down since September, NO MORE SCHOOL! No more nagging from teachers. No more too-tight blazer. No more homework. No more Miss Scott moaning about his shirt being untucked or his tie too short. And he was pleased. Delighted, even.

But he’d never known anything else.

His whole life had followed the bell: 8:45 to 3:15. For years. Since nursery, really. Now, everything was about to change. Real choices. Real life. Real risks of messing it all up. How was he supposed to know how to do life when he had been living by the bell forever?

Miss Scott stood at the front of the class, and Sam waited for the complaints about wonky ties and hem lengths. Only she wasn’t scowling like normal, which was a little disconcerting.

“I’ve had the privilege of watching you all grow from terrified little Year 7s into capable adults,” she said. “And I am genuinely proud of every single one of you.”

Her eyes glistened.

Sam shifted in his seat. That lump-in-the-throat feeling started again. He rolled his eyes at Mohammad across the room to cover it up. Mohammad smirked back. But it wasn’t pathetic, not really. It felt...

The bell rang.

As he left the room, Miss Scott gave him a nod and said,

“Oh, Sam? Just for me, just for today - please tuck your shirt in?”

He grinned. For once, and for the last time, he actually did.

It was the last walk down the languages corridor. The last queue in the lunch hall. The last tray of overcooked chips. On the way back from lunch, Sam turned to Mohammad.

“It’s good, isn’t it? Being done. But... don’t you think it’s a bit sad too?”

He tried to sound casual. He hoped Mohammad wouldn’t take the piss.

“Yeah,” Mohammad nodded. “It is a bit weird, isn’t it?”

Sam felt a strange rush of relief. He wasn’t the only one feeling it.

Around the corner, the shirt-signing chaos had begun. Markers in hand, everyone was begging their friends not to draw dicks on their backs. Sam spotted Daniel, his best mate in primary school. They hadn’t said much to each other in years.

“Sign for old times’ sake?” Daniel asked.

Sam scrawled his name with No. 1 Primary Mate underneath. Daniel laughed.

“Fancy playing COD next week?”

It caught Sam off guard, but he nodded. Yeah, he’d like that. He supposed he had some choosing to do now, who to make an effort with. Daniel might be a good one. Maybe it was time to stop sticking with the same group out of habit. That thought felt oddly freeing.

They left school together, whooping and cheering, shirts covered in scribbles, energy fizzing through the air. But behind the noise, a whisper followed Sam:

What if I get it wrong? What if I lose touch? What if I miss this?

If you're a young person or you support someone navigating this strange, emotional shift out of school, you're not alone.
Transitions can be joyful and sad, freeing and overwhelming, all at the same time.

If you need someone to talk it through with, I have a few fortnightly sessions available. Feel free to reach out.

🪴 Reflective Prompt: What do you remember about your last day of school? How big a part is it of your story?