The ordeal was a rude shock to the system; a reminder that life is more than JSTOR articles and fanciful mental lists. And yet, it was emblematic of something I couldn’t ideate or catalog. That experiences can’t be gamified, that life doesn’t fit neatly into checklists. That sometimes, your niche academic interests turn into half-haunting, half-hilarious realities. And that the cost of living freely is enduring the tough surprises; surprises that hide in frat basements and behind charming, toothy smiles.
Author: Caitlin Polesetsky
When I receive the same words, I take reprieve in the knowledge that someone, even if it’s not me, especially because it’s not me, knows that I will keep fighting.
It will be four years later. You will be walking down a tree-lined street after a day of classes, dappled sunlight shining softly through a layer of swaying branches, all lilting and turning and twisting in the breeze. There’s a good chance you will be deeply content, breathing in a lungful of fall air that has just begun to turn. You may cross paths with a smiling stranger on the sidewalk, nod at her, and as she passes, catch the end trail of her perfume. The same warm perfume that the really cute girl in your sophomore-year science class always wore.
“Yeah, I heard they’re dating.” “You can call it funny and I’ll treat it like it’s funny, but it’s sad and it’s ok that it’s sad.”