Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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The past week has been one big coffee-induced blur.
We're two days away from the last day of the semester, three days away from the Spring Formal, five days away from graduation, and then my time here in Pullman will officially be over.
We have the apartment through the rest of the month, but I promised my Nana I'd come home early to spend time with her before I fly up to New York for my summer classes. So really, I only have two more weeks here with everyone.
It's all happening so quickly. I feel like I barely have time to breathe, let alone finalize everything on my last to-do list of the semester. But even when I do complete something on my list, there's always an odd sense of dread as I cross it off because each time I do, I know I'm that much closer to leaving behind the life that I've built for myself here.
It's bittersweet, and I'm trapped in a constant paradox of crying every time I think about leaving Pullman behind and experiencing the inevitable rush of excitement when I remember that I won't just be going home to Florida when I leave, I'll be going to New York—to NYU.
It feels surreal to think that the one dream I've worked toward for the past four years is actually about to come true, but that dream quickly twists into a nasty nightmare when I remember that I still have a few more days of finals left and I won't actually be free of it until finals week is over.
I've drowned myself in so much coffee this week that I'm practically vibrating in my seat at all times. But I can't stop, because even though I've managed to write four ten-page papers, take three final exams, stay late every day to help edit the last newspaper issue of the semester, and keep up with my shifts at the diner, I still have one final exam to worry about. And even though I've been staying at his house most nights, Tristan and I haven't fallen asleep together in almost a week. He's been sticking with his on-season schedule—waking up for sunrise workouts and training every night with his coach—and since I close at the diner most nights, I don't have much of a choice but to stay up until three in the morning to study. Which means the amount of time Tristan and I get to spend together is slim to none.
Luckily, while Tristan usually ends up passing out by midnight thanks to his intense schedule, Micah seems to be on the same messed up sleep schedule as I am, so we've made an unspoken agreement to suffer together.
It happens every night—Tristan falls asleep on the couch next to me with his head resting in my lap and his arms wrapped around my waist, and an hour or two later, my hushed laughs from watching Micah practically throw his book across the room, eventually wake him up. It doesn't take him long to drop a soft kiss onto my cheek and retreat, half-asleep and groggy, into his room.
If we'd just focus on our papers, we'd be able to go to bed a little earlier, but Micah and I aren't exactly the most focused pair. We usually end up being productive for a few hours—while simultaneously complaining to each other about how much we hate writing said papers—until one of us breaks into the pantry. Okay, that part is usually me. But regardless, after giving Micah my best, I'll share my snacks if you get them down for me smile—which he always pretends to be annoyed with, even though I catch the smirk on his face when he pulls down the Oreos for me every night—the cookies are always the beginning of the end of our productivity.
