I step off the bus into the soft glow of early morning, the campus of Parkside University unfolding before me like a promise. Dew still clings to the blades of grass, and the air carries the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine. My duffel bag feels impossibly heavy at my shoulder—full of textbooks, clothes, and the fragments of a life I'm desperate to leave behind.
"Sophie!" A bright voice cuts through my thoughts. My roommate jogs toward me, her curly hair bouncing in a loose ponytail, an oversized sketchbook tucked under one arm. She laughs when she reaches me, looping her arm through mine. "Welcome to our new home," she says. "I've already staked out the best study spots. And coffee's on me."
Her easy warmth settles something inside me that I hadn't realized was trembling. For the first time in a long while, I let myself believe I might belong here.
We wander past clusters of students huddled around campfire–style pits of conversation—foreign accents mixing with laughter so familiar it almost hurts. Sophie points out the library with its modern glass façade and the cafe where the "secret" late-night menu exists. Every detail feels like a lifeline.
When we reach Linden Hall, the ivy-clad dorm where I'll live for the next year, Sophie cheers and gives me one last squeeze before racing inside. I follow, my heart thudding as I pass under the archway, stepping into a room that feels both empty and overflowing with possibility.
Later, after we've stashed our suitcases under the bunks and draped fairy lights around the ceiling, Sophie flips through her sketchbook. "Show me your world," she says, smoothing the pages. "Draw me something that tells me you—" Her voice falters, and she looks up at me. "Tell me who you are, Nina."
I trace my fingers along a blank page. I want to fill it with fire and tears and the echo of my mother's last words: "You'll always be a mistake." But when I meet Sophie's expectant gaze, I draw a single line—a horizon—with a small sun rising behind it. "I'm someone starting over," I whisper.
That night, I slip out to the quad under a sky dusted with stars. The hush is a balm to my racing thoughts. I half-expect memories to rush in—my father's distant shapes in our old living room, the slam of doors—but they stay at bay in the cool air.
I wander toward the oak tree where rumors say every freshman carves their name. My fingers brush over old initials and half-gone dates, and I press my own name into the bark: NINA. The wood is rough beneath my nails, but steady, like something that has weathered every storm and still stands.
When I turn to go back inside, I almost collide with someone. He's standing in my path, tall and silent, his dark hair falling into his eyes. In his hands he holds a single yellow rose. He steps back, offering it to me without a word.
I stare at the flower, then at him. His gaze isn't curious or amused—it's urgent, searching. "For you," he finally says, voice low. "Welcome to Parkside."
My chest tightens. I want to ask who he is, why he's here, but the only thing I can manage is, "Thank you." He nods once and disappears into the shadows beyond the tree, leaving me clutching the rose.
In my palm, the petals are soft and dew-damp. I press them to my cheek and let the moment settle. Somewhere between the night and dawn, I've taken my first real breath in months.
But as I turn to leave, I spot a note tucked into the rose's stem. The paper is old, edges frayed, and the handwriting is startlingly familiar:
"Trust the fire that marks your heart."
My grip tightens, and the words burn into my mind. I slip the rose and note into my bag and run back to the dorm, every step tracing the shape of a question:
What have I just been welcomed into—and will I ever be the same again?