The Blue Bird

Chapter Three: Snow and Silence

Three months had passed since that road trip with Shania, but it might as well have been a lifetime ago. After we arrived at college, our lives quickly diverged. Shania, with her endless energy and social ease, blended into the college crowd like she’d been born for it. I, on the other hand, sank back into my usual routine—quiet, withdrawn, and keeping to myself.

We didn’t really see each other after that. We’d smile and wave if we passed each other on campus, but she was busy with her own circle of friends, parties, and endless activities, and I… well, I found work at a small coffee shop off-campus. It was one of those places that felt stuck in time—wooden counters, chalkboards listing the daily specials, and the smell of roasted beans that somehow managed to comfort me. The job was simple, the customers mostly quiet, and I found solace in the routine.

But even the steady rhythm of making lattes and wiping down counters couldn’t stop my mind from wandering. I often caught myself daydreaming, my thoughts drifting back to the open skies of Nevada, the cool mountain air, and the blue bird. I hadn’t seen it since the day we left for college, but it lingered in my mind like an old friend. I missed that sense of freedom, the peace that came with being out there, away from everything. The Isolation of the mountains was far less suffocating than the crowded classrooms of college, or the endless noise of the campus.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. The busyness of college life—the lectures, the projects, the constant stream of faces I didn’t recognize—it only made the ache worse. I thought college would be a fresh start, a way to leave behind the hospital beds and the constant reminder of my frail lungs. But the truth was, I felt more out of place here than I ever did in high school. At least then, I knew where I stood. Here, everything was foreign, and I was drifting through it.

The only thing that kept me grounded were the phone calls from my aunt and grandmother. They made sure to check in on me, especially when I was feeling down. They always seemed to know when I needed a voice to pull me out of my own head. Their calls were like small anchors, keeping me tethered to some semblance of normalcy.

But as the weeks dragged on, the isolation deepened. I’d never really been good at making friends, and that didn’t change in college. I tried to put myself out there—joining study groups, chatting with classmates after lectures—but there was always this invisible wall between me and everyone else. It was like I was carrying my past, my illness, everywhere I went, and no matter how much I tried to blend in, I always stood out. The loner. The quiet kid. The one who wasn’t quite right.

As the first semester neared its end, the headmaster made an announcement that surprised everyone: a school-wide trip to Alaska.

“It’s a chance to build community,” he had said, standing at the front of the lecture hall, his voice echoing off the walls. “To get to know one another better and enjoy the final days of snow season. Team-building activities, skiing, and, for those of you in the sciences, an opportunity for research and hands-on learning in the field.”

The moment the trip was announced, the whole campus buzzed with excitement. Everyone seemed eager for the adventure, the chance to escape the routine of college life for a while. But I didn’t share their enthusiasm.

Alaska. Cold. Snow. And people. Lots of people.

The idea of going on a trip like that felt exhausting. I could already picture it: the endless chatter, the awkward attempts at small talk, and me, standing on the outskirts, not really part of it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to connect with people—I did. I just didn’t know how. Every interaction felt forced, like I was pretending to be someone else just to fit in. And it drained me.

I had already decided I wasn’t going to go. I’d stay behind, work extra hours at the coffee shop, and get ahead on my studies. It seemed like the perfect plan.

But then, the head of the science department dropped a bombshell.

“For those of you in the Environmental Sciences track,” he said, “this trip is a key opportunity for your upcoming research project. You’ll be collecting data in the snow fields, which will directly contribute to your grades this semester. I expect all of you to attend.”

I groaned inwardly. Of course, this trip wasn’t just a getaway—it was tied to my academics. And I couldn’t afford to fall behind. I’d worked too hard to get into this college, and if missing out on a research project affected my grades, it would be one more obstacle I didn’t need.

I tried to tell myself it wouldn’t be that bad. After all, I loved science. It was the one place where I felt like I had control, where everything followed rules and patterns. I could get through the trip by focusing on the research, ignoring the social side of it. Still, the thought of being surrounded by people—stuck with them for days on end—filled me with dread.

The one saving grace was that I didn’t have a lab partner. I could work alone, and that was fine by me. I had always been more comfortable on my own. No need to explain myself, no need to worry about disappointing someone else.

The days leading up to the trip passed in a blur, and before I knew it, I was standing in the crowded parking lot early one morning, watching the chaos unfold. Four buses lined up, engines idling, while students piled in with their bags and ski gear. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, making my way to the third bus. I found a seat near the back, hoping to avoid any unnecessary conversation, and slipped my headphones in. Music. The one thing that could drown out the noise of the world around me.

As the bus rumbled to life, I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. The trip would take two days, and I figured I’d sleep through most of it, staying in my own world as much as possible. But as I drifted in and out of sleep, my thoughts kept circling back to the blue bird, to the mountains, to the peace I’d found in Nevada. It was a sharp contrast to the restlessness I felt now, sitting on a bus full of people I barely knew.

Somewhere along the way, my blue suede diary slipped out of my backpack, falling onto the floor with a quiet thud. I reached down to grab it, careful not to disturb anyone, but my hand brushed against someone’s leg instead. I froze, looking up to see who I had accidentally touched.

To my surprise, it was Mrs. Aurora, the new temp science teacher who had joined us for the semester. She had taken over after our previous teacher broke his leg in a skiing accident, and though she hadn’t been here long, she had made an impression. She was young, sharp, and had a commanding presence that made everyone sit up and pay attention when she spoke. But I hadn’t realized she’d be on this trip.

“Sorry,” I muttered, embarrassed.

She smiled softly, her expression warm. “Don’t worry about it. Here.” She bent down, picking up my diary and handing it back to me. “I didn’t read it,” she added with a small laugh. “Though I do like the color. Blue’s always been my favorite.”

I nodded, taking the diary from her without saying much. Something about her presence made me feel uneasy, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. There was a mystery about her, something that seemed too polished, too perfect. But I shook off the thought, stuffing the diary back into my bag and closing my eyes once again.

The road ahead was long, and I had no idea what awaited me in Alaska. But for now, all I could do was hope that somehow, this trip would be worth it. That maybe, in the cold expanse of snow and silence, I might find a piece of myself I’d been missing for too long.