Where we left it

I don’t know if it was because I was excited or nervous. Maybe both. I couldn’t really tell.

All I knew was that I didn’t want to be late. Not late enough for anyone to notice. Not late enough for a professor to question why I walked in after everyone else was already seated. I didn’t want to be the one standing there, looking around for whatever seat was left, feeling like I was already behind before anything even started. I didn’t want to go to the wrong classroom. The wrong building. I didn’t want to mess it up.

It’s always been like that.

The fear of fucking things up. Of not having control over something that could’ve been avoided if I just… did things right the first time. If I stayed ahead of it.

I think I got it from my mom.

She’s always been like that. Reactive. Always a step ahead, always thinking about what could go wrong before it even happens. Think before you act, she’d say. Prepare for the consequences.

And I did.

I still do.

I just don’t think she meant for it to feel like this.

The campus was full of people, but not in a way that made sense to me yet. They were just… everywhere. Scattered around buildings I didn’t recognise, standing in groups, talking like they belonged there. Some were alone, but they still looked like they knew where they were going. Like this was normal.

I didn’t look like that.

I’m pretty sure I walked in a circle. Maybe twice. I kept ending up in the same places, just from different directions. I thought about asking someone, but I didn’t. The few times I’ve tried before, the answers just made me more confused. And then I’d have to stand there pretending I understood when I didn’t, and it just made me feel stupid after.

So I figured it out on my own. Eventually.

And now I’m here.

Standing outside the classroom, trying to look like I belong. Like I’ve been here before. Like I’m not thinking about every single thing I could be doing wrong just by standing here.

But my chest is tight.

The air feels different here. Not bad. Just… different.

Back home, it’s quieter in a way that actually settles into you. If you stop long enough, you can hear things properly. Birds, not all at once, but one at a time. Wind moving through trees instead of pushing past buildings. Even silence feels like something you can sit in without thinking about it too much.

Mornings there don’t rush you. They just… happen. Light coming in slow. Nothing demanding your attention straight away.

Here, everything overlaps.

Voices don’t stop. People talking over each other, laughing, footsteps constantly passing like there’s somewhere more important they need to be. And underneath it, there’s always something else—traffic, horns, a plane overhead cutting through everything like it belongs there. Like it’s normal.

It doesn’t stop.

It just keeps going.

It should be exciting. And it is. A little. I can feel it, somewhere under everything else.

But it also makes something in me feel off. Like I stepped into something that was already moving and I’m expected to keep up without knowing how. Like everyone else got used to this a long time ago and I’m just now catching up.

Like I missed something.

Like everyone else chose this.

I didn’t.

I just… ended up here.

It was the easiest option. The only one that didn’t feel like it was already closing on me. I didn’t even think about college like that back home—not seriously. I was barely passing half the time. Waitlisted for the ones that actually felt out of reach anyway.

This one didn’t ask for much. Just enroll.

It had the degree my mom liked. That was enough for her. And my aunt lives an hour away, so it made it easier to say yes. Easier to pretend I wouldn’t be completely on my own.

It all made sense on paper.

Just not like this.

Not standing here.

Unfamiliarity is... uncomfortable.

I lean against the wall and look down at the floor, avoiding eye contact without really thinking about it. I wonder if this feeling is going to stay like this, or if it eventually just… goes away.

I try to calm myself down. Tell myself it’s fine. It’s just the first day. Everyone starts somewhere.

It doesn’t really help.

So I start thinking about other things instead.

About what it’ll be like once I go inside. The kind of people I might meet. How I’d start a conversation without making it awkward. What I’d even say. How I’d say it.

I start imagining the next four years too. Just to fill the space in my head with something else.

People keep walking past me. Back and forth.

Until one of them stops.

Just a few feet away.

I catch it first in the corner of my eye. Just a blur, something that doesn’t move the same way everyone else does.

And then I feel it.

That same kind of tension. The kind I’ve been trying to keep down since I got here. It’s not mine this time. Or maybe it is. It feels close enough that I can’t really tell the difference.

She hadn’t walked past me.

I lift my head and see that this girl was looking at a folded piece of paper.

The same one every freshman has.

I notice her hair first. Long, light brown. It falls soft, but not careless. Like it’s meant to look that way. And then the rest comes in slowly, piece by piece, like my eyes don’t know where to settle.

The gloss on her lips. The faint pink on her cheeks—too even to be accidental. Not heavy. Just enough. Like she knows exactly where to stop.

There’s more if you keep looking.

The clips in her hair, small, but deliberate. Not matching, but still placed like they belong there. Her earphones are tucked in neatly, the wire looped instead of shoved, like she doesn’t leave things unfinished. Her shoes are clean. It's not necessarily new, but you can tell it's taken care of. Wiped down, probably. The kind of clean that doesn’t happen by accident.

Her shoulder bag is pink, and cute. It stands out in a way that feels intentional, like she wanted it to. Like she picked it knowing it would be the thing people notice first, instead of just grabbing whatever was easiest.

After she reads the fine print, she looks up at the number outside the door. Just for a second. Like she’s checking if she’s supposed to be somewhere else.

Before her eyes land on me.

I don’t remember smiling, but I remember raising my hand in an awkward way to acknowledge her. It wasn’t really a wave, more of an instinct than a decision.

I know she smiled back. I saw those painted lips curl upward. I saw the blush on her cheeks turn rosier. I saw her hand lift and wave back at me, just as awkward.

The next part became a blur. One second I was still where I’d been, rooted, thinking too much, doing nothing. The next, I was closer. Close enough to say something, close enough that leaving would’ve been more awkward than staying.

I don’t remember what I said. Something simple, probably. A greeting. A question. Maybe a comment about the ring on her bag. I think.

And she answered. Replied. Smiled, a bit shy, but she did.

That’s all it was. It wasn’t anything big. I think most of my first encounters with people have always been like that. Small. Something that either goes somewhere or just ends there.

This one didn’t end.

One sentence turned into another. Then another. It wasn't smooth, or perfect, but it kept on going.

I don’t remember how long we stood there. Just that it was long enough to realise that everyone else had already started going inside. It was that kind of awkward moment that turns into a quiet, shared laugh.

And then we walked in together.

I remember thinking I should try to make more friends. I probably will. I know I should.

But I kept thinking about her. About how easy it felt. About how it didn’t stop after the first sentence. About how I didn’t have to stand there and overthink every word before I said it.

And I don’t think that happens to me often.

So I thought that maybe I should make more friends. I hope I do.

But at the same time, I kept thinking I wouldn’t really mind if it was just her.