I find myself in an ebb and flow state of mind—wandering in and out of consciousness—one part of me here and one in my hometown. Feelings like this regularly shadow me throughout late summer, the seasons unraveling into one until every part of my routine is twisting and turning without reason to stop. 

The seasons melt into each other as I look at every familiar thing I have ever known. I swim to an anchor in times of change. Inch by inch I walk, hands pressing down on different parts of me, to fill a mold—a mold of a person I once was.

The luxury of my 263 square foot dorm, tucked away in the bare corridors of the second floor, is not mine anymore. Returning to campus, I feel the driver start to turn astray at the cross-section around the river. Instead of speeding up the tormented hill, passing our campus center, the mail-delivery room, the hidden dining halls, to finally arrive among the northside dorms, he falls feet short from traversing up College Hill. He turns right, driving unsteadily onto a flat road. 

I yell at him to stop, emphasizing that he’s gone in the complete opposite direction. But then, I remember, my voice is not my own anymore. I look back through the front mirror to see the mound of heavy suitcases in the back of the car. The baggage, both physical and emotional, tells me that I have already packed everything up. 

Come, the Providence wind calls on me. 

Come, look over here. 

Fighting the reluctance plaguing my body, I find myself standing in front of a building, stories and stories high, not brick, but a rectangular, run-down version of a college dorm that resembled the one I had once seen in a movie when I was nine. Even the corridors are different. No longer are the lights brightly lit, but dimmer, flickering in anticipation with each step I take up, and up and up and up, arriving at the second floor. 

The dread of coming home to an empty room. Not even dust rests in a place like this. Dust moves, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, the feverish rush of people, sliding movement of refrigerators, rustling of shoes being taken off, brushing away fallen locks by the doorway. 

But here, in this empty room, I remember nothing. 

And yet, it is nothing and everything at once. 

Perhaps, it is my turn to have a theme, a level of special decorum, a mindfulness in decoration. Maybe, with the notable downsize in space from the year before, in my environment, in light’s ability to seep through the windows, I can learn to pick and choose who it really is I want this room to know. 

The certain stillness I wake up to at home is gone. No longer is the silence filled with crickets, excitable cardinals, critters running around in the grass as if they, too, are on their way to somewhere important. Now, the sounds are sudden movements—shifts in your roommate’s slumber, beeping from roving cars, even the act of fumbling for glasses in the morning, shifting other objects on the desk, emulating over the silence. 

And yet, even so, the feeling of sliding on shower shoes, drawing the curtain closed, closing your eyes against the warming water feels different, and maybe even better. No longer am I afraid that my tattoos will be spotted by my mother, or that my newly dyed ginger hair will be mocked in my little town in Ohio. Even more, maybe now I can dress in the colors I want, whether bright and with potential, or dark and pondering, but choice is evident here, even before, even now. 

Waking up used to feel like an unavoidable hot shower, endless and endless beyond control, even when tugging at the faucet to stop. Now, it resembles the silk of gliding through the water after the first initial laps. Breakfast in hand—a bar and a banana—I wander through these new parts of campus, admiring the scamper of the squirrels, the sounds of toddlers on the slides, even the way the smell of bacon steadily trails me as I pass local coffee shops so close to me now. 

Only here is it acceptable to put on the biggest headphones, the loudest boots, the shortest skirts, the longest sweaters (in 90 degree weather) and feel understood, loved, admired, all while holding a vanilla latte—extra pumps of syrup included. 

And then, I see her, the sun parting for her like the skin of an overripe mango—first her face, then the rest of her emerges, the clouds working to part for her and me in the meadowy campus. Upon first touch, I wonder how I really lasted three months without her. 

She confessed to me that her love language is physical touch and in the beginning of last winter, I was overly worried. I shriveled from the thought of physical affection, whether a hug or a caress. And yet, when last May came around, I was the one standing in the airport, tears blurring the vision of my hands handing away my boarding ticket. How would I endure months away?

As the summer passed—June stickily, July happily, August quickly—both of us were consumed by our lives at home. Riding on the subway home from work, my body ached from fatigue followed by endless walking through the hovering heatwaves. I imagine her with her car top-down, hands laying outstretched on the wheel. 

Just for an instance, those three months of limited talking, hushed conversations, whispered affections at night, dissipated into nothing. It seems that I have forgotten how to display love.

And yet, when we finally embraced that dewy late summer afternoon, my stomach dropped, the pit sinking deeper and deeper, leaving a deep indentation in my skin. The worries plaguing my summer felt farther and farther away. Maybe the distance after all was simply a facade—a deep, twisted, unraveling thought. Whittled away were the feelings and revealed was the tethered string, connecting one another after all. 

I part from her embrace and fully stare at her radiant, large, smile. All this time apart has taught me that maybe, yes, physical touch is my love language too. 

I am here,

I am here,

I am here!

Can someone tell me if I’ve changed? It’s always been a tug and a pull, wanting to understand myself so deeply (too deeply) to see how I am changing into the person I’ve always wanted to be. 

I want to wake up and choose grace, immediately using a guasha, applying layers of sunscreen throughout the day, fueling myself with vanilla yogurt and a side of sunny-up eggs. 

I want to wear loud, clomping motorcycle boots to class, raise my hand in every class, start and end the day with large, beautiful, sweet-tasting breaths.

And yet, in actuality, to be truly mindful is to choose yourself each morning. 

Change is good. Embracing change is enough. Maybe, perhaps, I have finally entered that period of acceptance. 

Maybe, as change is inevitable, so is the evolution of myself.