I didn't really move on. I just crammed my life into cardboard boxes and let everyone call it "growing up." The goodbyes felt too small, too thin, for all the things we were leaving unsaid in the driveway.
Now the silence follows me everywhere, thick and heavy, like it’s waiting for me to speak first. Home feels different now—not a place, but a weight. Every corner of this room holds a version of me that I’m forced to leave behind, a ghost I’m not allowed to be anymore.
They say this is just how it goes, new city, new campus, new names to learn, as if starting over is as simple as changing clothes. As if "fitting in" is just a box I’ll eventually check. But I’m terrified of who I’ll be when I get there. I don’t know if I’ll find people who feel like a Sunday afternoon, or if I’ll just get used to the coldness of unfamiliar rooms.
Something ended without asking if I was ready to let go, and now I’m standing at the edge of a map I didn't draw, trying to figure out how to belong to a place that hasn't even met me yet.
