The moment I stepped onto the university campus, it was as if time paused just for me. Everything buzzed with possibility—the laughter of students spilling from lecture halls, the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, the low hum of music playing somewhere nearby. The sun draped everything in golden light, and for the first time in a long while, I felt alive. I stood still for a second, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of freshly cut grass and freedom. Jeezzzzzz! I'm so excited, the thrill of new beginnings coursed through my veins like a gentle hum.
This wasn't just a place of learning. It was a world brimming with unknown stories, silent promises, and the kind of dreams I had nurtured for years. The nerves were still there—tucked just beneath the excitement—but they were softer now, cushioned by the knowledge that I'd made it. I was here. University. Physiology. My own path.
As I made my way across the main courtyard, dragging my suitcase behind me, everything felt surreal. The buildings towered above me like sentinels of knowledge, and students hurried past, confident, and familiar. I was the new girl—unsure, hopeful, filled with equal parts of pride and anxiety. Eventually, after asking for directions twice and nearly walking into the wrong hostel block, I found it: my dorm. A narrow corridor led to a shared space with soft yellow walls and a faint smell of citrus air freshener.
The hostel I was assigned to housed four students in each spacious room, with two large wardrobes provided for us to share—two students per wardrobe. One of the things I absolutely loved about my school was how clean and well-maintained the hostel facilities were, a stark contrast to the horror stories I'd heard about cramped, stuffy dorms in other universities. Each room came with its own private bathroom and toilet, ensuring comfort and convenience, while a ceiling fan spun lazily above, keeping the air cool and fresh in the well-ventilated space that quickly began to feel like a second home. It was simple and cozy, and for now, it was mine.
I immediately dropped my bags by the bed and sank into the mattress, the weight of the journey suddenly pressing down on me. The room was still. The only sound came from the soft hum of the ceiling fan. And just like that, my thoughts drifted—to him.
Marcel.
My best friend.
I reached for my phone instinctively, ready to text him, but paused. I smiled instead, remembering how strange and unlikely our friendship had once been.
FLASHBACK
The first time I saw Marcel, I hated him. It was the first week of high school, and he was the new guy—cool, annoyingly quiet, and already the hotshot on the school's hockey team. Girls practically drooled over him, whispering his name in the hallways and giggling whenever he passed by. I found it irritating. To me, his silence came off as arrogance, like he thought he was too good to talk to anyone beyond his small circle. He stuck close to Kelvin, the guy he came to school with who was, by the way, loud, funny, and way more approachable. I actually liked Kelvin; he matched my energy and cracked jokes that made everyone laugh. But Marcel? He sat at the back of the class, barely spoke, and still managed to ace every test like it was no big deal. We were oil and water. Or so I thought.
One day, we were assigned a group project together, and I was furious.
"Of all the people in the class, why him?" I complained to my friend Stephanie, already bracing for the worst—sure I'd end up doing all the work while he rode on his golden-boy reputation.
"He's not that bad, girl! Trust me," Stephanie said, her cheeks turning pink.
"Of course you'd say that," I muttered under my breath.
Stephanie had a thing for any attractive guy within a ten-mile radius, so her defence of Marcel didn't surprise me in the slightest.
The moment we sat down to brainstorm, everything changed. He wasn't arrogant or aloof like I'd imagined. He actually listened—really listened—not out of politeness, but like my words meant something. And when he spoke, it wasn't with fake charm or condescension. He challenged my ideas thoughtfully, with genuine curiosity. That's when I started to see the cracks in my assumptions: his dry sense of humor that caught me off guard, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about something he was passionate about, the quiet depth in everything he said. It threw me off. And though I never would've admitted it at the time, I started looking forward to our meetings more than I should have.
By the time the project ended, we weren't just reluctant partners—we were something more. I couldn't quite name it yet, but it lingered in the way we stayed behind after class to talk, long after everyone else had packed up. Or how we started walking home together, our steps syncing without effort. Conversations that began with schoolwork drifted into music, childhood memories, and secret fears. Marcel was still quiet, still selective with his words, but with me, he opened up—slowly, like peeling back layers I never expected to see.
We started texting every night. First, about the project. Then, about random things. And then about everything. I began to look for him in every room I walked into, and he always seemed to be just where I needed him. He'd remember the little things I said in passing—like my favourite snack or the name of a book I wanted to read. He never made a big deal out of it, but it showed in the most subtle ways. When I was stressed about an exam, he'd send a meme to make me laugh. When I aced a test, he was the first to say, "I knew you would."
Kelvin noticed, of course. He started calling us "Nerdies" and claimed he'd never seen Marcel laugh so much in his life. Stephanie said it, too, only with a knowing smirk and a wag of her eyebrows. I'd roll my eyes and wave it off—but deep down, I knew something had changed. We'd gone from oil and water to being best friends.
PRESENT DAY
Back in the dorm room, the buzz of my phone snapped me back to the present. It was a message from my mom:
Hey baby girl, hope you're fully settled in and doing good?
A smile tugged at my lips. As much as I wanted to respond with a long text, words on a screen just didn't feel like enough. There was too much to say—too much I wanted her to hear in my voice. So I dialled her number.
We talked for a while—about my journey, the look of the campus, my roommates, and even the butterflies I still felt in my stomach. She laughed gently and offered her usual wisdom, giving me tips on how to handle this new phase of life. It was comforting, grounding, like a warm hug through the phone.
When the call ended, I realised that I hadn't even texted Marcel. My best friend. He'd been there through everything, and I knew—without a doubt—he'd want to hear every detail. I sat up, cradling my phone, a soft smile playing on my lips as memories of him bubbled up. Maybe I'd tell him about my first lecture tomorrow. Or how the campus looked like it had been pulled straight from a movie set. Or maybe I'd just send the simplest truth:
I miss you.
As I looked around my dorm—still sparse, still unfamiliar—I felt a quiet ache settle in my chest. This place was beautiful, buzzing with potential, but it was also laced with a kind of loneliness I hadn't expected. Not the kind that craved noise or people, but the kind that longed for someone who truly knew you.
And Marcel? He always did.