La Rochelle Yearbook 2025

BUDDING AUTHORS

Truths better left buried

It was quiet. Too quiet. Sometimes the world just... stopped. Time held its breath, the universe pressed a finger to her cosmic lips, and shadowed embers filtered out the noise. It was usually peaceful. Especially at home, in the hours before dawn, when the ocean’s roar made me feel invisible and undeserving, and Julian’s smile could be found on the horizon. But not today. Today, I lost the music. I wandered through darkened streets, alone, eyes flitting about, searching for... what exactly? It didn’t matter. I just needed to get away from that house, away from my sister who was trying to fix everything, thinking no one would see her thrashing against the silence. I lifted my bandaged right hand to eye level, trying and failing to flex my fingers. This couldn’t be fixed. “Permanent nerve damage,” the doctor had said gravely, like she understood that it would mean never being able to play guitar again, which would mean losing the very essence of who Julian was. The pulse of an electric rhythm, as sacred and familiar as the breath, woven into bone marrow like an ancestral secret. Violet melancholy, like the echoes of a piano at midnight, softened by rain. I smiled, because Julian was also made out of wry smiles and hard truths, and the truth never dies. It may not come out but it never dies. As I got further away from the house, I exhaled deeply, relaxing into London’s familiar, bustling energy. The overcast sky and gazes of strangers spoke more truths than I

could carry, but it was peaceful. Heavy, yet languid and enlightening, like London winters. My eyes suddenly caught the faint outline of a figure, hidden by the night’s grasp. “You’re losing your touch, Montoya,” I murmured. “I doubt it.” Lorenzo Montoya was suddenly right next to me. “I’ve been following you for an hour, Blondie.” Leather crinkled beneath my cheek as I hugged him. “What are you doing here? I’m fine, as you can see.” “I spoke to the police. They said they’ll find the man who stabbed you, but they won’t.” Lorenzo turned away, hurriedly tying his unruly hair with his usual red bandana. “I will.” “Why? It wouldn’t change anything. And if it’s Maverick...” My fingers carved crescent moons into my palms. Lorenzo ignored me and started walking away. He turned back to me with blood-stained shadows written into his smile. “Truth never dies. It may not come out, but it never dies.” It was quiet. Too quiet. I listened intently, searching for truths I didn’t want, but the truth never hid in silence. It was coiled behind clenched teeth. Woven into storm-wrecked veins and balanced on the edge of a knife. This time, it should’ve stayed buried forever. This time, truth would steal things from me that held more value than clarity ever could. Megan Jansen lawyer, engineer, or an influencer. Mary Oliver’s question doesn’t sound like it wants a résumé. Her question sounds like it wants a heartbeat – something wild, something precious, that’s not a checklist. That’s a dare to be alive. So maybe the plan isn’t about a career yet, maybe the plan is that I want to make mistakes that are mine, I want to take a road trip with friends, where we run out of data for Google Maps and end up lost, but laughing through it all. I want to stand on a stage with shaky knees and perform, even if my hands tremble and the singer’s voice cracks. To tell someone I love them, before my courage runs away. Is that not what wild means? Not reckless, but awake. Not safe but true. Precious doesn’t have to mean expensive, precious means fragile. One chance at life, no replays or practice rounds, it’s the note you can only play once. Maybe the real plan is to not waste time being someone else’s echo. We all know the trap, living for marks, for likes, for what our parents want, for what looks shiny on a university application. If that’s all we do, then we’ve answered Mary Olivers question – with silence. So, here’s my answer. For now, at least, I plan to live loudly, to risk being wrong, to chase things that make my heart race, whether it’s music, art or climbing some ridiculous mountain. I plan to cry when I need to, to laugh so hard my stomach hurts, to keep friends who remind me of who I am, even when I forget. I plan to fail, because failing means trying and trying is a lot better than sleepwalking through a life that’s meant to be experienced. Maybe I’ll figure out what I want to be along the way. Who do I want to be? That starts now, someone awake and alive, someone who treats life not as a homework assignment, but as a gift. So, when the question is asked again, ‘What do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I plan to live it. Fully, messily, honestly, and that’s enough for me. Farynn Cupido Grade 11E

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” ~ Mary Oliver, American poet, Pulitzer Prize winner. “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” That’s the question Mary Oliver leaves hanging in the air, a question that feels less like a gentle invitation and more like a dare. A dare to be honest and to stop pretending that life is some multiple-choice test, where all the answers are already printed into neat rows. What do I plan to do with my life? Honestly sometimes I don’t even know what I plan to do with my weekend. We’re 17 years old, we wake up at six in the morning, drag ourselves to school, drown in tests and scroll through reels until our eyes sting. And somewhere in between, the world keeps whispering, “What will you do with your life?” We’re apparently supposed to know, supposed to have a five-year plan, a career goal … a path paved with perfect bricks. Doctor,

46 | Hoër Meisieskool La Rochelle | Girls’ High School