SURVIVING

Six months later, I’m standing in the middle of my dorm room at Florida Atlantic University, unpacking the last box of my things. I'd been at the mall earlier.

The air smells faintly of fresh paint and disinfectant, a sterile sort of newness that mirrors my attempt to wipe the slate clean. The room is small but functional—a twin bed with crisp white sheets, a wooden desk, a wardrobe, and a single window overlooking a courtyard where students buzz around like ants.

The campus is massive compared to anything I’ve ever been around before. Palm trees sway lazily in the Florida sun, and there's this strange mix of excitement and homesickness that tugs at me every time I walk between classes. It’s beautiful here—paradise, really—but I feel like I’m on the outside looking in, detached from the life I’m supposed to be building.