~🌺Chapter five🌺~
It's the first day of university and I wake up at 4:47 AM for absolutely no reason.
No alarm. No noise. Just my brain deciding that today's the day we panic early.
I lie staring at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars I put up when I was twelve and never took down.
In a few hours, they'll belong to someone else, and another kid will lie here, wondering why anyone thought plastic constellations were a good idea.
Everything I'm taking fits into two suitcases and a backpack. Looking at them lined up by my door, I wonder if I should have more to show for eighteen years. A third suitcase maybe. Some furniture. A pet rock.
Mom cried yesterday while we packed—not the pretty kind, but the red-faced, insisting-I'm-fine kind, sobbing over a pile of socks.
"You don't need to fold them that way," I said, watching her roll each sock into a perfect little ball like it belonged in a museum.
"I know how to fold socks, Amara."
"They're just going in a drawer."
"They're going in your drawer. At university."
And she kept crying.
Dad stood in the doorway, saying nothing. Always better at silence than words. I used to find it comforting. Now we're all just tiptoeing around the elephant in the room—and the elephant is wearing his face.
They don't ask about him anymore.
The drive takes two hours but feels like six. Mom fills every possible second of silence with reminders about laundry detergent and eating vegetables ,calling home, I nod at the right moments while watching the city disappear behind us.
Dad drives like he's personally offended by every other car on the road ,silent, white-knuckled, occasionally muttering things under his breath about people who "don't know how to merge" and "shouldn't have a license."
When we finally pull up to the residence hall, the first thing I notice is that the website photos were a complete lie.
The building isn't the cheerful brick structure with ivy and sunshine ,it's gray, it's massive, and there are about eight thousand people swarming the entrance like ants at a picnic. They all look like they already know each other, laughing and hugging and taking selfies.
I don't know anyone.
Which should probably scare me, but instead it feels like I can breathe for the first time in months.
My room is on the fourth floor, room 427. I spend exactly three seconds wondering if the number means something before I realize I'm just stalling.
It's small. Smaller than the virtual tour made it look. Two beds, two desks, two closets, and maybe four square feet of actual walking space. One side's already taken ,neat stacks of books, a laptop, and a potted succulent that looks annoyingly healthy.
My roommate isn't here. I don't know if that's good or bad yet.
Mom immediately starts moving my stuff around in ways that make absolutely no sense to me.
"Why are you putting my shampoo next to my socks?"
"These are different piles, Amara."
"They're touching."
"Things touch. That's how space works."
Dad's attempting to assemble the IKEA shelf we bought last week, and he's currently in a heated argument with the instruction manual. "Why do they give you twelve screws when you only need eight? What are the other four for? Backup chaos?"
"Maybe they're spares."
"Spares for what? In case the shelf spontaneously falls apart?"
I sit on my bed which squeaks loud enough to wake the dead and watch them. This whole production isn't really about whether my socks are properly folded or my shelf is structurally sound. It's about them trying to hold onto me for as long as they can, like if they just arrange everything perfectly, I won't really be gone.
When everything's finally done, Mom hugs me tight enough that I lose circulation in my arms.
Call if you need anything. Anything at all. Even if it's just to talk, or if you're bored, or if you just want to hear my voice
"I will. I promise."
"I mean it, Amara."
"I know."
Dad clears his throat, which is how he deals with emotions, and squeezes my shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. That one squeeze says more than he's said all day.
Then they leave.
And I'm alone.
I sit on the squeaky bed in this tiny room that smells like cleaning products and other people's lives, and I wait for the panic to hit.
It doesn't.
I just feel calm. Like I've been holding my breath underwater and someone finally told me I could come up for air.
My roommate shows up an hour later in a whirlwind of bags and energy.
She's tall, with box braids piled on top of her head and the kind of smile that makes you want to smile back even if you're not in the mood. She dumps three bags on her bed and sticks out her hand.
"Maya. Sorry I'm late,orientation went long, then I got lost trying to find this building, then I got lost inside the building, which shouldn't even be possible when there are literally numbers on the doors, but here we are."
I shake her hand. "Amara."
"Did you go to orientation?"
"Missed it."
"Lucky you. Two hours of someone explaining fire safety like we're all idiots who've never encountered a door. 'In case of emergency, please exit the building.' Revolutionary advice.
" She grins. "I'm pretty sure half the people there fell asleep."
I feel my lips twitch.
Almost a smile.
She starts unpacking, and I notice she has about seven phone chargers, which seems excessive but also kind of impressive.
"So what made you pick this place?" she asks, untangling a charger cord.
The real answer is complicated. The real answer involves things I'm not ready to talk about with someone I met five minutes ago.
"Seemed like a good fit," I say.
She nods like this makes perfect sense. "Cool. Well, if you need anything, just ask. I'm weirdly good at figuring stuff out. Last week I fixed my neighbour's WiFi with a paperclip and pure determination."
"Pretty sure that's not how WiFi works."
"Worked though." She's grinning again. "Sometimes confidence is more important than actual knowledge."
That night, the residence hall transforms into barely controlled madness. Doors slam every thirty seconds, someone's blasting music that's mostly bass, and people are yelling to each other across hallways like they're trying to communicate across the Grand Canyon.
I stay in my room with the door closed and organize my books alphabetically, which officially makes me the most boring person on this floor.
Around eight, Maya throws on a jacket. "I'm gonna explore. Want to come?"
"I'm okay.
Thanks though."
"You sure? Someone said there's free pizza on the second floor."
"I'm sure."
She shrugs. "Cool. Text me if you change your mind."
When she leaves, the quiet feels different. Thicker somehow.
I sit at my desk and stare at my blank walls, wondering if I've already messed this up. Not the coming here part I'm pretty sure that was the right call. But maybe shutting everyone out wasn't the best strategy.
My phone buzzes.
Mom: Hope you're settling in okay. Proud of you. Love you.
I stare at the screen, feeling something loosen in my chest.
Me: Settling in. Love you too.
It helps.
The first week passes in a blur of syllabi and getting lost between classes.
I go to everything, sit in the back row, and take notes like I'm documenting evidence.
The professors talk about expectations and deadlines and academic integrity, and I write it all down with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
I don't talk to people unless I absolutely have to.
Not because I'm trying to be antisocial but I just don't know how to be the version of myself that makes friends easily anymore. That version of the one who laughed too loud and trusted too fast feels like someone from another lifetime.
Maya keeps trying though. She invites me to dinner, to study groups, to some floor event involving board games. I say no most of the time, yes occasionally when the guilt gets too heavy. She never acts offended, which makes me like her more.
One night we're both at our desks working when she asks, "Are you doing okay?"
I look up from my laptop. "What?"
"You just seem... I don't know. Like you're physically here but mentally you're somewhere else."
I don't have a good answer for that.
"Look, if something happened," she says carefully, "you don't have to tell me about it. But you also don't have to deal with it alone, you know?"
For about two seconds, I considered telling her everything. About him, about what he did, about why I needed to get as far away as possible.
But my throat closes up and the words won't come.
I'm fine,Still getting used to everything."
She studies me for a moment, then nods.
Okay.
But I'm serious if you ever want to talk, I'm here. I'm either a really good listener or a terrible listener who gives questionable advice. Either way, I'm available.
Later, lying in bed while Maya snores softly across the room, I think about what she said.
You don't have to deal with it alone.
The thing is, I don't actually know how to do it any other way.
By week two, I've fallen into a routine.
Wake up early, go to class, hide in the library until my eyes hurt, and come back to my room. Repeat daily.
It's lonely, but at least it's predictable. And predictable feels safe.
I skip the club fairs and the social mixers and keep my head down and my schedule full.
One afternoon I'm in the library, reading about ethical frameworks for my leadership class, when someone sits down across from me.
I look up, ready to subtly communicate that I'd really prefer to study alone.
But then I see who it is and my brain just... stops.
Professor Harrington.
He's younger than most of the other professors, maybe early thirties and he's got this look like he's constantly analyzing everything around him. He teaches my Ethics in Leadership seminar, and I've noticed him before because he has this way of looking at students like he can see straight through whatever bullshit you're trying to sell.
"Amara, right?" he says.
I nod because words have apparently left the building.
"I wanted to tell you that your last paper was really excellent. Thoughtful, well-argued.
The section on moral responsibility in organizational structures was particularly strong.
Oh. Thanks.
"I'm actually looking for a student assistant for a research project I'm running. It's voluntary, but you'd get hands-on experience with ethical analysis and policy development." He pauses. "I think you'd be good at it."
I blink at him. Me?
You look surprised.
I'm a first-year,i noticed but doesn't disqualify you.
He stands up. "Think about it. No pressure. Just email me if you're interested."
Then he's gone, and I'm sitting there feeling like someone just handed me a test I didn't study for.
An opportunity.
The first actual opportunity since I got here.
I should probably feel excited. Or nervous. Or literally anything.
Instead I just feel confused.
That evening I tell Maya about it while she's doing her skincare routine, which involves approximately forty-seven different products.
She drops her moisturizer. "Are you serious?
That's incredible!
Professor Harrington almost never picks first-years for stuff. Last year he turned down some senior who had a 4.0."
"How do you know that?"
"I have sources. I'm extremely well-connected."
She grins at me in the mirror. "You have to do it."
I don't know. I'm still trying to figure out how to exist here.
So figure it out while doing something interesting. You're already spending ninety percent of your time studying anyway. Might as well make it count for something.
She has a point.
Maybe moving forward doesn't mean hiding in my room. Maybe it means taking chances, saying yes to things, building something new even if I'm scared.
That night I opened my laptop and stared at a blank email for twenty minutes.
Finally I type:
I'm interested.
Two words. I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Just two words.
But somehow they feel like the beginning of something different.
I don't know what yet.
But for the first time in months, I actually want to find out