The air felt electric.
Not just because it was the first day of the master's program, but because everything around me pulsed with the promise of change. The campus was alive — buzzing, breathing, bursting with energy. It smelled of fresh paper, perfume, ambition, and a little bit of nervous sweat. Everyone wore their best versions of themselves today. And so did I.
I stepped through the gates, the city still unfamiliar under my shoes, but the ground felt right. My suitcase was light, but my heart was heavy — with hope, with adrenaline, with questions I wasn't ready to ask aloud yet.
New city. New phase. New people.
I didn't smile right away. I just observed. It's a habit I picked up somewhere between heartbreaks— to look before I let myself be seen. And God, there was so much to take in.
Groups of students laughed too loudly, probably over jokes they didn't even find funny. Some were lost in their own world, headphones on, heads down — trying hard to look indifferent. A guy tripped over a step and two girls burst into giggles. Another girl was already live on Instagram, spinning with her "first day fit." It was messy, chaotic, and completely alive. I liked that.
I walked slower than usual, not because I was unsure, but because I wanted to feel it all.
Inside the main building, the red-brick walls echoed with voices and footsteps. I paused at the staircase where a group of students were filming boomerangs. The banner above read: "Welcome to your next chapter." I smiled at its optimism. I wasn't sure what my "next chapter" would be — but I was ready to turn the page.
In the corridor, a girl was struggling with Google Maps. I gently took her phone, tilted it, and pointed her in the right direction. She laughed, relieved. We exchanged names, but I forgot hers almost immediately. It didn't matter. Maybe she was just a one-scene character in my story.
I held a door open for someone carrying three cups of coffee. He didn't say thank you. I didn't mind. The universe keeps score in other ways.
And then — the classroom.
That familiar classroom smell hit me the moment I stepped in — a mix of dust, whiteboard marker, and possibility. Students were still trickling in. I scanned the room for a second and picked a seat — not the front, not the back. Just somewhere in the middle with a good view of everything.
I sat down, took out my pen and notebook (yes, I still use those), and let myself watch.
The girl in pink already had two friends — maybe hostel mates. They were loud, giggly, already planning lunch. The guy in a checkered shirt kept cracking jokes too fast — trying too hard. Then there was a boy in the corner, hoodie up, headphones in, expression unreadable. He hadn't smiled once.
Funny how you could sit among strangers and still feel the pulse of who they were. Or at least who they were trying to be today.
The professor walked in and began his welcome speech. I heard his words, but my mind wandered.
Was anyone watching me the way I was watching them?
Would anyone here matter in my life six months from now?
Would I fall in love here?
My fingers curled around the pen unconsciously. I didn't come here to fall in love, I reminded myself. I came for something bigger — a clean slate, a sharper version of myself, a future that didn't look like my past.
But still — something inside whispered.
This place… something is going to happen here.
The thought struck me out of nowhere. Like an intuition. No logic, no evidence — just a quiet knowing. And I trusted that part of me.
Someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned. It was the girl from the corridor — the Google Maps girl. She offered me a mint and whispered something about the professor's tie looking like a curtain. I laughed.
Just like that — I wasn't completely alone anymore.
The roll call began. They mispronounced my name, of course. They always did. I corrected it with a smile. No irritation. No sarcasm. I've learned to carry my name like armor — strong, personal, and unapologetic.
By the time class ended, I hadn't written much—just a few scattered lines and underlined words I'd probably forget. But something about the room, the people, the energy—it stayed with me.
Not in ink. In feeling.
As we spilled out of the classroom, everyone seemed to already be falling into place — making lunch plans, sharing phone numbers, forming those early alliances that sometimes last and sometimes fade by week two.
I stayed behind a few seconds longer. Packed my things slowly. Stepped out with the last wave of bodies.
The sun had climbed higher, casting amber warmth over the red-brick façade. Its shadow stretched long across the lawn, quiet and unhurried like time itself pausing to breathe. I tilted my head back, eyes tracing the building's weathered edges, and for reasons I couldn't yet explain, I smiled.
Not because everything was perfect.
But because something about the imperfection, the unknown, felt alive.
There, standing in the hush between who I had been and who I might become, I felt it.
A beginning had quietly begun.
This was my story now.
And this — this was only page one.