They say college is the best time of your life.
I say, sure—if you're an extrovert with flawless skin, a stable family, and the energy of a caffeinated puppy.
Me? I walked into campus with two things: a heavy backpack and a social battery that dies faster than a knockoff phone in cold weather.
I didn't even like school. So imagine how thrilled I was about campus life.
Orientation week? A waking nightmare.
Loud groups. Ice-breaker games. Forced smiles and fake enthusiasm.
I remember sitting in a circle trying not to stab myself with a pencil while someone chirped, "Say your name and something fun about yourself!"
I don't even remember what I said.
I just know nobody remembered me.
And honestly? Good.
Please stay away from me, and whatever you do—don't ask me to talk.
But even in that chaos, I met someone.
Someone who would become one of my most trusted friends to this day—Lily.
She was my opposite: bubbly, bold, the kind of person who walks into a room and somehow owns the air.
We made zero sense together.
But sometimes, that's how the best friendships start.
Lily never pressured me to talk.
Never judged when I ghosted her texts.
She just… stayed.
And that kind of staying? That's rare.
Our friendship didn't start with fireworks.
It was built slowly, on quiet common ground.
She didn't flinch at my weird humour.
She didn't question my silences.
Instead, she taught me how to laugh without feeling like I was doing it wrong.
How to sit in a crowded café and not feel like I was suffocating—even if she didn't know she was doing it.
She gave me friendship without a fine print.
Meanwhile, back home, my parents had other plans.
Study hard. Get a stable job. Don't waste time on nonsense.
They didn't need to say it out loud—some things are inherited through silence.
They never said it with cruelty.
It's just what they knew.
Survival, not self-expression.
Gratitude, not emotions.
Strength, not softness.
"Don't fail. Don't disappoint."
Those words rang louder than any alarm clock in my hostel room.
So there I was—caught between two worlds.
In one world: Lily, messy hostel nights, late-night maggi sessions, and laughter that felt like therapy.
On the other hand: duty. Responsibility. A to-do list written by people who loved me, but didn't really know me.
Some days, I felt like a stranger in both worlds.
Other days, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I was starting to become someone real.
Campus life didn't fix me.
It didn't suddenly teach me how to be happy or free or fearless.
But it gave me space.
To grow.
To breathe.
To figure out what I liked when no one was looking over my shoulder.
I didn't fully figure it out back then.
But I found Lily.
And that meant something.
Even introverts need someone who sees them before they speak.