There’s something about her—about the effortless way she takes up space, unapologetically herself in a tank top and a thunderously confident playlist—that makes me want to stand up straighter. Or hide under the bed. It’s unclear.
My heart rate is just beginning to stabilize—travel adrenalineebbing, roommate anxiety processed and shelved—when the door swings open with no warning.
Two women step inside, both so objectively stunning I instinctively check whether my mouth is doing something undignified like, I don’t know, hang open.
The taller one moves first. She’s all limbs and posture, with a kind of fluid elegance that suggests her skeleton has been designed by a minimalist architect. Her skin is rich and glowing, framed by an unapologetic crown of curls. The other one is shorter—closer to my height, though I doubt she’s ever once been mistaken for forgettable. She's in a bikini top and cargo pants, her hair dyed a deep, deliberate red, and tattoos cover most of her visible skin like a living, breathing art exhibit.
The taller one launches straight into a sentence. “There are ground swells right now. If I miss them because of you, Maya, I swear I’ll replace your shampoo with Nair.”
The other girl’s already nodding. “That, and if we’re late to Jack’s party, I will sign you up for a mailing list titledWomen in Cryptousing all three of your email addresses.”
Maya, to her credit, doesn’t even blink. “Okay. First of all—greetings. Try them sometime.” She gestures vaguely in my direction. “Second, this is Coralie. She’s my roommate. You’re scaring her.”
The tall one finally turns toward me. “Oh—hi. Sorry.”
The redhead gives me a quick once-over. “You’re new.”
“Very.”
She squints. “And definitely not from here.”
“Is it the wool socks?”
Her lips curl into a smirk. “Yeah, dead giveaway. Cute top, though.”
Maya throws me a glance like,see, this is the fun part,then says, “Coralie, meet Alana and Soren. They’re—well. You’ll see.”
I offer a smile, because that’s what people do when they’re trying not to give away how deeply overwhelmed they are. “Nice to meet you.”
Alana grins and tosses her curls over one shoulder. “Oh no. She’s polite. We’re going to ruin her.”
“Speak for yourself,” Soren adds, now sitting on the edge of Maya’s bed. “I’m a great influence.”
This earns an unrestrained snort from Maya, who’s packing her beach tote at a pace I can already tell is giving Alana hives. She glances up at me. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re going surfing and then to a party. You’re welcome to join.”
Both her friends turn to me with warm, open smiles—the kind that make your chest go weird in a way that’s probably reserved for mutual girl-code recognition.
I give it genuine consideration—like, full cognitive effort, pros and cons, not just for show. It’s not that I don’t want to go. Or maybe it is, a little. Maybe it’s because I’ve already hit my personal growth quota for the day. Maybe it’s because “Coralie” and “party” have historically been mutually exclusive variables.
Still, the idea of stepping into the Pacific—of making friends, real ones, on day one—has its appeal. A strong one.
In the end, though, exhaustion and social anxiety win this round. “Thanks, but maybe some other time. I’m not even sure whether I can stand upright for another hour.”
Soren shrugs, the chain on her cargo pants catching the light as she does. “Cool. See you around, maybe.”
Alana gives me a small wave, her bright smile knocking the air out of me once more, and pulls Maya out the room with her in one swift motion. And just like that, they’re gone.
I blink into the quiet that follows, still slightly winded. The hurricane of first encounters has passed, and I am left in its wake—alone in what will be my new home, which feels quieter than before. But also—oddly—like mine.
For a moment, I consider staying in. Unpacking, maybe. Organizing my books by sub-discipline. Calling it a night and pretending that today didn’t unravel every thread of my nervous system. But the sun is still out, the chatter outside my window still very much alive, and my curiosity has never once learned to sit still. So I swap out my fleece-lined sweat trap for a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and slip back outside.
This time, without the burden of luggage or first-impression dread—or the paralyzing fear of saying something irreversibly awkward, which I may or may not have already done—I let myself actually look. Not just glance or catalog. Butsee.
And what I do see is… stunning. Not just the postcard stuff, though the mountains and flower-drenched trees do their part. It's the people—bright-eyed, sun-kissed, speaking a hundred miles a minute in a dozen different languages. It’s the birds, their calls unfamiliar but oddly melodic, like nature’s version of jazz improv. It’s the smell of something grilled wafting through the air from an origin I absolutely intend to locate and befriend.
I walk for what feels like an hour. Maybe more. I dodge stressed parents and unfazed upperclassmen, pass orientation booths and lawn games and one student napping in a hammock with a novel stuck to their face. It’s chaos. It’s joy. It’s been taped to my bedroom wall in brochure form for the last four years, and now it’s real.
Eventually, with my feet mildly protesting, I loop back to the campus bookstore. I clocked it on my first lap and made a mental note of the entrance—slightly to the left of the deep green stairs and the Rainbow Warriors statue.
