Damn, did I clear out my browser history?
Jeremy thought to himself as the old SUV rattled down the highway toward Westbridge University. His mom hummed along to an '80s rock song she always swore "never gets old." Outside, summer was bleeding into fall, and golden leaves chased the wind like they knew change was coming.
But Jeremy's stomach wasn't twisting because of change. Not exactly. It was the gnawing thought that the laptop tucked inside his backpack—and the old desktop in his bedroom—held months of lonely nights no one was supposed to know about. The weight of private habits. Guilty tabs. Too many browser sessions that started with boredom and ended in shame.
Thank the computer gods for the cloud, he muttered to himself. I'll clear the history remotely.
"I can't believe my little boy is going to college," Eleanor said, her voice trembling slightly with a bittersweet cheer, glancing sideways with that bittersweet smile mothers seem to perfect. At the next red light, she reached across the centre console, fingers burying themselves into his curls like she was committing the texture to memory.
"Mom…" Jeremy chuckled, trying to duck out from under her hand. "You're embarrassing me in front of the cool kids."
She laughed—an easy, rolling sound that warmed the car more than the late-summer sun.
"If only the cool kids were here to see you," she said, eyes glancing playfully toward his hoodie, which had "GAMER MODE: ON" written across the chest. The backseat was filled with snacks, mismatched towels, and a single, second-hand laundry basket.
"Alright, alright," she said, pulling her hand back as the light turned green. "Let's get you settled in before I start crying all over your dorm room floor."
Jeremy groaned theatrically, but deep down, his chest pulled tight. His mom's tears were never fake.
They pulled into Westbridge's student lot thirty minutes later, the SUV wheezing in protest with every bump. The campus bustled with energy, young adults hauling boxes, laughing awkwardly with parents giving last-minute advice like it might stick forever. Jeremy suddenly felt small, like a misplaced piece of furniture.
Eleanor's car looked painfully out of place next to gleaming Teslas and SUVs that probably came with in-dash espresso machines. Her Volkswagen sedan had been through a lot. He remembered the night she rear-ended a mailbox, swearing the car had more dents than dollars in her account. Still, it had survived. Like her. She has had the old Volkswagen for as long as Jeremy can remember. After many accidents and many more mechanic trips later, the car is somehow still standing. A testament to German engineering and a reflection of Eleanor's financial situation.
She popped the trunk, and the hinges groaned in surrender. Inside were just two items: his overstuffed suitcase and his backpack. Everything he could afford to bring. Everything that mattered.
"Did Ruben call you back?" Eleanor asked, a little too casually.
Jeremy's mouth flattened. "Nope," he said, yanking the suitcase from the trunk. "Guess it's not like his first son going off to college is a big deal or anything."
"Aww, come on, Jer." Her tone softened. She closed the trunk slowly, as if doing so gently might make him feel less disappointed. "Don't let that weigh you down. You know how your father is—always on call."
Always on call. Always somewhere else, Jeremy thought.
"I bet he'd be here if I were doing premed like he always wanted."
Eleanor winced but recovered quickly. "You can't trade your life for someone else's happiness, Jer. You know what you want. You always have."
She gave him a playful punch on the arm.
"You were born to be a computer geek. Besides, who's gonna give Bill Gates a run for his money if you don't?"
Jeremy grinned and clutched his arm dramatically. "Ouch. That actually hurt."
"Only 'cause you're soft. You big softie."
They stood like that for a moment—on the curb, surrounded by noise, families, futures—and the silence between them felt like a thousand words not said.
"You nervous?" she asked finally.
He shrugged, then sighed. "Kinda."
She raised her eyebrow. The one that always made him spill.
"Okay, maybe… really nervous."
She pulled him in. A quick hug, fierce and quiet. "It's just college. You're going to be fine. Let yourself grow. That's all I ask."
He didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to. But because the knot in his throat had thickened into something heavy and dry.
Jeremy rolled his suitcase toward the dorm buildings, each footstep echoing with a sense of finality. His backpack felt heavier now—not just because of the laptop, but because of everything else: the guilt, the secrets, the loneliness he'd carried like a second skin.
He reached his building—Carnegie Hall. Yellow-bricked and ivy-lined. A touch of age, but proud nonetheless. As he got to the entrance, he looked back.
Eleanor stood by the car, waving, smiling with watery eyes. Her engine sputtered to life, just like it always did.
And just like that, she was gone.
Jeremy turned toward the heavy glass doors.
Here goes nothing.
____________________________________________________________________________
The lobby smelt like cleaning fluid and hope. A few RAs buzzed around, giving out key cards and brochures with "Welcome to Westbridge!" scrawled in cheery fonts. Jeremy checked in and was directed to the second floor. Room 212.
He made it to the elevator and found it occupied by two girls laughing over a TikTok. Not wanting to be the awkward guy wedged beside them, he took the stairs. By the third floor, he regretted everything.
Room 212 was small but clean. A single bed by the window, a desk with chipped corners, a closet barely wide enough for his hoodie collection. The other bed was already claimed—sheets tucked military-tight, a duffel bag at the foot, and a gaming console plugged into the wall.
At least he's not a total jock, Jeremy thought.
He dropped his stuff and sank into his mattress. The springs squeaked in protest.
Pulling out his laptop, he powered it on and stared at the blinking login screen. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, half-smile, and a brain filled with questions.
He opened Chrome.
Just to check.
Still logged in.
History?
Still there.
Damn.
He sighed and began clearing everything, heart thumping slightly even though no one was around. Why did it feel like someone might look over his shoulder any second?
He paused on a tab—one of the last ones. A video he'd saved. It wasn't even explicit. Just… intense. A woman whispering instructions, telling a man not to come. Telling him to wait. Telling him that restraint was power.
He closed it.
Jeremy wasn't ready to think about why that one stuck with him more than the others.
A knock pulled him from his screen.
"Yo," came a voice from the hall. "You the new guy?"
Jeremy opened the door.
His roommate stood there—tall, athletic, and barefoot. He held a slice of pizza in one hand and a welcome packet in the other.
"I'm Marcus," he said, flashing a grin. "Second year. Resident nerd. You?"
"Jeremy. First year. Possibly doomed."
Marcus laughed. "Welcome to the jungle, bro."
Marcus put down the pizza on the bedside drawer. He sat down on his bed—more like collapsed into it.
"I am so exhausted." Marcus said with a yawn.
"Tell me about it. My mum and I just drove twelve hours from Kentucky down here."
"Damn, for real?" Marcus said, sitting upright on his bed.
"Yeah. I am so tired."
"Welcome to the pit, bro." Marcus said as he started turning on his game console, an Xbox 360.
"Call of Duty. Sick." Jeremy said, commenting on the game Marcus was loading up.
"Ah, a man of culture. But just how grounded are you?" Marcus asked, raising one of his brows up in a way that made him look like Dwayne Johnson. If his head were shaved bald and his biceps bigger, he could easily pull off a decent Rock at Halloween.
"Did you really just ask me that? Bro, I am a COD grinder. I've done it all, man—from Finest Hour to Black Ops to Ghosts to Modern Warfare. Man, I grew up on COD."
"Damn, that's one impressive portfolio. What are you waiting for? Grab a pad; let's put those skills to the test."
"Bro, I gotta put my stuff away first."
"Boy, if you don't get your ass over here. It's COD, man. Nobody says no to COD."
"Arghhh." Jeremy exclaimed in an exaggerated way. " Fine. Just a few rounds, but you are definitely helping me unpack."
"Don't sweat it, bro. I got you."
"Prepare to get your ass whooped, man." Jeremy said as he sat down beside Marcus, picking up the second game controller.
"Okay?" Marcus said, dragging out the second syllable of that word. "Let's hope you can back up all that trash talking."
Jeremy smiled. As he played the game, pressing buttons and shooting enemies, he thought to himself,
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe, just maybe…
Here goes everything.