My driver navigates the curves with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. I, meanwhile, am trying to discreetly press my face to the window, like my brain’s buffering real-time beauty and refusing to catch up. We pass bus stops tinged green from oxidized copper, trees that cycle through white, yellow, and purple blooms, and—wait. Are those chickens?
Just… wandering around?
I don’t have time to confirm nor deny my observation before we turn onto University Avenue.
Tall marble markers stand like parentheses around the entrance, UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI‘I AT MANOA etched between them in understated black lettering.
And suddenly, I’m swallowing around the very inconvenient lump forming in my throat. Not because it’s beautiful—although it is. Not even because it’s surreal, though it’s definitely that, too.
But because I realize, with startling clarity, that this is what I’ve built my whole life around. This campus, shaded by flowering trees and cradled at the base of what might be the most impressive mountains I’ve ever seen, is no longer just a pin on a vision board.
Now, I’mhere.
Still scared. Still out of my element. Still very unsure if the chickens were a hallucination.
But here, nonetheless.
One more right turn and we’re idling in front of a brown-and-beige building partially obscured by trees that look like they’ve been mid-embrace since the Velcro invention. My bags are unceremoniously deposited on the curb, and just like that, it’s real.
I thank the driver—my first official point of contact in Hawai‘i and, by default, the best conversationalist I’ve had all day. He gives me a parting nod, the kind that says good luck without actually saying it, and drives off before I can second-guess literally everything.
I pull up last week’s housing email—the one cheerfully titledWelcome to Your New Home!as if that would magically neutralize the existential dread—and make my way inside. Almost immediately, I’m hit with the overwhelming sensation that I am, objectively, out of my depth.
Students in Manoa green cluster in doorways, perched on armrests, laughing like this is their third semester here and not, in fact, their first hour. Everyone looks infuriatingly settled—like they all got a copy of the manual I somehow missed.
Have you ever tried to act natural while your imposter syndrome is scream-singing sea shanties in your brain? It’s not ideal.
But I make the very significant effort to climb the few steps to my dorm room, the hum of pop music leaking through the door before I even reach it. It's bright, upbeat, and wildly confident—which is intimidating in the way only bubblegum vocals can be.
I knock once—more out of habit than necessity—then ease the door open with my shoulder. The room is compact, functional, sunlit. Two twin beds against a long white wall, a shared desk between them, shelves above, and another small desk at the foot of the far bed. At the very back, a row of windows throws the whole space into warm, golden light and offers a sliver of campus framed by flowering trees.
On the bed closest to the door, the source of the music glances up from where she’s half-lounging, legs crossed, head bopping. She looks me over once—curious, not judgmental—then flashes a grin so genuinely warm itdisarms me.
“You must be Taylor,” she says, voice syrupy-smooth as she hops off the bed and offers a hand. “I’m Maya.”
I shake it, my fingers slightly clammy because of course they are. “Coralie, actually,” I correct, trying not to wince. “Taylor’s just my last name. But yeah—hi. It’s, um… really nice to meet you.”
Maya gestures toward the bed closest to the window. “Before we keep going, I’ll tell you that I hate waking up with the sun assaulting my eyeballs, so if it’s cool with you, that one’s yours.”
Itiscool with me. It’s perfect, actually—I like the sun in the morning. I set my bags down and glance at her again, this time with slightly more processing power. Her hair is the kind of chestnut brown that’s been artfully sun-altered in places, not by design, but by proximity to a life spent outside. Her skin is a shade I assume is only achievable through either genetics or a lifetime of living near the ocean. Possibly both.
“I hate this part, so let’s make it quick,” Maya says, flicking through her phone until she lands on something that sounds suspiciously like early-2000s Avril Lavigne. “I’m two years into my MBA, my GPA istechnicallypassing, I don’t snore, but I do chew loudly enough to scare birds. Also, I have a zero-tolerance policy for indoor shoes.”
I glance down. My shoes are still very muchon. I toe them off so fast I nearly pull a hamstring.
“Okay, um,” I begin, adjusting the strap on my bag because my hands need a job. “I’m here for the marine biology graduate program. I’m ninety percent sure I don’t snore, though no one’s formally peer-reviewed that. And I am… critically pale under the Hawaiian sun?”
She blinks once. Twice. Then lets out a laugh so unfiltered and delighted it echoes off the cinderblock walls. “Oh, I like you.Andyou’re right—you look like you were printed on a grayscale setting.But we can fix that. Iknewthey were going to give me a wide-eyed mainlander this year. I just knew it. I even made a playlist for the occasion.”
I arch an eyebrow. “A playlist?”
“It’s kind of my thing,” she says, with the air of someone admitting to a compulsive but ultimately endearing personality quirk. “Every major event, minor inconvenience, or emotional shift—I have a soundtrack. Failed exam? Playlist. Bus ride on the way to the North Shore? Playlist. Realized I’ve been hooking up with my ex’s brother for two weeks? You better believe there’s a playlist. And now…” She taps at her phone, then flips it toward me like a reveal. “A Coralie playlist. I’m curious what it’ll end up sounding like.”
I let out a small laugh—equal parts genuine amusement and mild panic. Because truly, what does one put on a playlist dedicated to me? Ambient ocean noises? The sound of someone hyperventilating into a paper bag between grant deadlines?
Maya, meanwhile, is reclining on her bed like she invented the concept of not caring what anyone thinks. She has the easy charisma of someone who probably led her high school feminist societyandgot prom queen, then turned both down on principle. She’s sharp, disarming, and somehow pulls off jorts without a hint of irony.
I love her. I’m terrified of her. I’m not totally convinced those are two separate emotions.
