You guys might not know me, but I know every single one of you. 

Yes, you, fourth floor math teacher with the cowboy boots and five-ton belt buckle. Underclassmen boys flexing peach fuzz and too-short Adidas pants; lousy newspaper editors shoving papers into everyones’ faces just for them to be thrown on the floor five seconds later. 

As much as I complain about all your dweeby little faces, hormonal body odor, and horrendous clothing that is either too tight or too loose, over the past year, I have begun to miss you.

The first day when no one came into the building, I was gleeful. With the school all to myself, I dipped my pinkie toe into the pool and used that bald man’s DJ set to blast some Ke$ha. The solitude was refreshing. 

But after one week went by, the tasty snacks in the hallway were running out. Desperate and confused, I tried to call for help in your principal’s office, but it was to no avail. So instead I spun on her desk chair for the next three days. 

Finally, two months into my isolation, I came to the conclusion that no one was ever coming back.

I wistfully wandered the hallways singing, “When There Was Me and You” #gabriellamoment. Tired of the monotony of my new life, I sat in the dripping shower in the locker room, gnawing on old Juul pods, just to feel something. 

I mourned my inability to break new soap dispensers and steal the pink elixir inside. As the bathrooms’ superbly-drawn phallic art faded, my will to half-live went along with it. I found myself lamenting the atrium’s impromptu dance parties and fights (thank goodness I documented every single one of those moments on Snapchat).

Now, people have begun to repopulate to the building, but it’s not the same. There are no longer students being pushed down the stairs or wrestling to get through security and Mr. Vela’s beautiful smile is tragically hidden behind a mask. 

Alas, I am still holding out hope for everyone’s return, so please come back. Please?