The campus was already awake when I arrived.
Not lively, exactly. Just alert. People moved with purpose, guided by printed schedules and quiet anxiety. Buildings stood farther apart than they had looked on the map, their entrances wide and impersonal, as if they were still deciding what kind of people belonged inside them.
I stopped near the main gate and looked around.
It felt strange to be here without a uniform.
Clothes mattered now. Or at least, it felt like they did. Everyone looked slightly more deliberate, as if this was the first day they were allowed to choose how they appeared to the world—and didn't yet trust themselves to do it naturally.
I checked the orientation schedule again, even though I already knew where I was supposed to go.
Hall B.
Faculty briefing.
Student registration.
Simple enough.
The path leading toward the hall was lined with trees just beginning to fill out. New leaves caught the light, still thin enough to let the sky show through. It reminded me of the river in early spring—how everything looked unfinished but certain it would get there eventually.
Inside the hall, rows of seats stretched farther than I expected.
The ceiling felt higher than any classroom I'd known. Conversations echoed briefly before dissolving into background noise. I chose a seat somewhere in the middle, set my bag down, and sat.
Only then did I start looking.
I told myself I was just taking in the room.
That I was curious.
That this was new.
Then I saw her.
She stood near the aisle, holding her folder with both hands, scanning the rows the way she always had—focused, a little impatient, like she was sure something familiar should be here and just hadn't revealed itself yet.
For a moment, I didn't move.
Seeing her here felt different from running into her in town. Different from messages, from chance crossings. This was a place we hadn't shared before. A place that belonged to neither of us yet.
Then she looked up.
Recognition crossed her face instantly. No hesitation. No confusion.
She smiled.
Not the polite one.
Not the careful one.
The same smile she'd always worn when she saw me unexpectedly.
I stood before I realized I was moving.
"You're early," she said when she reached me.
"So are you."
She glanced around the hall. "I didn't want to get lost."
"I think that's unavoidable."
She laughed softly. "Probably."
She sat beside me without asking.
The familiarity of it caught me off guard. Not unpleasantly — just enough to remind me how long it had been since we'd done something without thinking first.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The hall continued to fill. Someone waved at a friend across the room. A staff member tested the microphone, the brief screech cutting through the noise before settling.
"So," she said eventually, lowering her voice, "we made it."
"Looks like it."
"I didn't think we'd end up in the same place," she admitted.
"Me neither."
She looked down at her folder, fingers tightening slightly around the edge. "I almost didn't apply here."
"Oh?"
She nodded. "Changed my mind at the last minute."
I waited, but she didn't elaborate.
I didn't ask.
Somehow, it felt like the right thing not to.
The orientation began.
A representative spoke about the university's history, about independence, about responsibility. Words like freedom were used generously, as if they were handing it out along with the pamphlets. People around us took notes diligently. Some listened. Others stared ahead, absorbing less than they thought.
I found it hard to focus.
Not because the information didn't matter, but because I kept noticing small things instead. The way she leaned forward slightly when something interested her. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear without realizing it. The familiar rhythm of her attention, unchanged by the unfamiliar setting.
At one point, she leaned closer.
"Do you understand any of this?" she whispered.
"Enough to know I'll forget it later."
She smiled. "Same."
The moment felt small. Ordinary.
It shouldn't have mattered as much as it did.
When the session ended, people stood all at once, chairs scraping loudly against the floor. Conversations started immediately—questions about classes, schedules, clubs. The space that had felt overwhelming earlier now felt crowded.
We stepped outside together.
The air was warmer than it had been in the morning. Sunlight spilled across the open paths, filling the space between buildings easily. Students clustered in groups, already forming circles, already beginning to belong.
"So," she said, walking beside me, "what now?"
"I think we're supposed to register next."
She sighed. "Of course we are."
We followed the flow of people toward the registration building. The line moved slowly. Too slowly. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, glancing around.
"This place is huge," she said.
"We'll get used to it."
"Will we?" She smiled faintly. "Everything feels… temporary."
I looked at her. "Temporary?"
"Like nothing's settled yet," she said. "Like we're allowed to be here, but we haven't earned it."
I thought about that.
"I think that's the point," I said. "We're supposed to figure it out as we go."
She considered it, then nodded. "That sounds like something you'd say."
While we waited, she flipped through her folder absent-mindedly.
"You still drawing?" I asked.
She paused. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
"When I don't feel guilty about it."
"You shouldn't feel guilty."
She smiled, but didn't respond.
When it was finally our turn, we registered quickly. Names checked. Documents verified. Everything efficient, impersonal. Just another process completed.
Outside again, she stopped near a tree-lined path.
"Are you heading home?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"Me neither."
We stood there, neither of us quite sure what to do next.
In high school, moments like this had resolved themselves automatically. We would walk somewhere. Sit somewhere. Let time stretch until it didn't matter.
Now, the pause felt more noticeable.
"There's a café near the back," she said, almost tentatively. "I saw it on the map."
"Do you want to check it out?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
The café was small, tucked between two buildings, half-hidden by trees. Inside, it smelled like coffee and something sweet. We ordered without much thought and sat by the window.
For a while, we just watched people pass outside.
"College feels different," she said quietly.
"How so?"
"Like everything's possible," she said. "And because of that, nothing feels certain."
I nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."
She looked at me then, studying my face in a way that felt unguarded.
"I'm glad you're here," she said.
The words landed softly, without emphasis.
"Me too," I replied.
We didn't say anything after that.
Not because there was nothing left to say, but because the moment felt complete on its own.
When we eventually stood to leave, the day had shifted again. Shadows stretched longer across the paths. The campus felt calmer, as if it had finished assessing us and decided we were allowed to stay.
At the gate, we slowed.
"I guess we'll see each other around," she said.
"Yeah."
"Same department helps."
"It does."
She hesitated, then smiled. "Don't disappear."
"I won't."
She nodded, satisfied, and walked away, blending into the movement of students heading in different directions.
I watched her go, the familiarity of the gesture grounding me in a way nothing else had that day.
As I headed home, I realized something.
Being in the same place again didn't restore what we'd had.
But it didn't erase it either.
It placed it somewhere new—unfinished, unclaimed, waiting to be understood.
And for the first time since graduation, that uncertainty didn't feel heavy.
It felt open.