I've missed you since we met

7

I had returned to campus almost a week ago. Now as an enlisted candidate, which truthfully was more than I expected, but still only created one thought in my head - "there's still a chance I won't get in". For that matter, there was nothing to assure me of the fact that I was safe at the moment, there wouldn't be until the big envelope would arrive in my mailbox. The day and hour was unknown, and I dreaded it more than my math's final, which was scarier than death itself. Natutally, I was fully aware of how overdramatic and exaggerated my catastrophic scenario was. But it intruded my thoughts on every occasion, drawing me back to any imperfection or mistake I had possibly made along the way to admission. Reality was very clear. There were only two options; I get in, or I don't get in. Those simple possibilities however, blossomed into a beautiful, but thorny rose, constantly tempting me to embrace it with my sore fingers.

Paving my way throught the crowd collected in the halls, I noticed how dear everything suddenly felt. The disgusting water fountain under the painting of Stephen Hawking, the stained rug at Mr. Wilson's office door, even the daunting look of the receptionist I never learned the name of - following anyone who disturbed her manicure by passing by in her working hours. Not even being associated with positive emotions, enought time had passed to make them bring nostalgy over me. Every little dull feature gave me a sense of belonging. At some point I even had a thought that I had learnt how nothint and everything worked around here, so It wouldn't be beneficial to leave to someplace else. But I was clinging onto what I thought I needed. I knew Cambridge didn't need me, they would manage.

This was all I had dreamt of, without any overstatements. The grass here was greener, the tea tasted better, and the people I met were so genuine and welcoming, I didn't want to leave because I felt safe in this little bubble I had enveloped myself in. Of course I didn't. Over the course of a week I learned that it was possible to have conversations about Victorian literature or the influence of Mary Wollstonecraft on today's feminism with my peers. Being an international student was an advantage in making friends, as they evidently still were handled with the uttermost curiosity which - even coming strictly out of good intentions - could after some time be perceived as obtrusive. Even so, my reception was far beyond any expectations, and quickly proved me wrong on the British upper-class stereotype that had been pushed into my head by my dad's traveler friends. All of the locals were polite, but not stiff and cold. They invited me to the pub straight away, and along with it let me in in their political inside jokes I understood nothing of, while "cuppas" turned into pints. Even in the dim light of the nearly empty room we spent too much time in, their prominent, slightly drunk faces told me exactly what individuals I had the pleasure of spending time with. The thought of me being the foreign element quickly faded away, leaving no trace, while my admiration for the casual grace the Brits - in my eyes - represented only became more evident.

Nearing the Trinity bridge, my eyes moved upwards, examining the old oak tree that would always bring up the particular memory of my first meeting with one of the people that would mean the most to me. Tuesday, two days after I had begun my reconnaissance stay, me and a couple of students from the other years went for a walk in the park, apparently close to Clare college, where I was staying. I remember being completely engulfed by the appearance of the constructions in the almost absolute darkness, and with only faint brightness shyly radiating from a faraway lightpost. For some reason I recall walking closer to take a look at a slightly pornographic statue that also apparently was famous for some reason I never cared to find out. And I remember seeing a tall figure hesitantly approaching me and becoming clearer under the pit of shivering gleam.

Sam recalled that evening in a quite similar fashion to mine, but always emphasizes that I looked like a burglar in my black sweatpants and oversized college sweater I had put on top of my pajamas. The reasoning behind my exquisite fashion choice were my newly made friends, whom had dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night to show me the park when it was pitch black, because as they said, it looked"proper dodgy" at night - like it was an attraction. After a normal, awkward, first chitchat about everlastingly important topics like queen Elizabeth's health and England's brexit situation, we quickly formed a bond that felt so natural and obvious that I couldn't imagine not knowing him the years prior to our meeting. As obvious as it would seem, we had much in common, but our differences balanced it out. We became the friends that were painfully sarcastic and always using dry humour to attack each other. We were also painfully honest. Nothing was unimportant as long as we told the whole truth about it, he had once said.