The entire time that I packed for college, I never truly experienced the feeling that I was leaving.

It seemed that everyone else did, however, and in the days leading up to my departure, there was nearly constant talk of leaving people behind and my parents' empty nesterhood. I went along with it all, but it felt too much like another one of my many camps and summer programs. I'd be back, no big deal.

I did cry once, on the morning we left. The sight of my old room—now no longer my room—softened the shell of disbelief, and I sobbed quietly as I held my grandparents' hands through the window of the SUV. This, too, ended rather quickly, mostly because we left a bag at home and returned an hour later. On the second try, there was only laughter, no tears. Don't leave another bag. Okay, Grandma, I won't.

I waved to them as we drove away, my grandfather in a white t-shirt, one hand raised in farewell.

I moved in a few days later, which was when things would supposedly become real. I unpacked patiently, tidying the room that I knew would look...well...more lived-in before long. I had lunch with my parents, with no hints of emotional outbursts in sight. Convocation came and went—I stood behind a tree, having arrived too late to catch even the regular standing area—and walked back to my dorm for the final parent send-off. Still it didn't feel real, even when my mother texted me that they would see me next in November.

Okay, I thought, tucking my phone into my pocket. Memories of our last few days, of frantically packing and hour-long trips to Wal-Mart, still lingered fondly, and I had only the sense that I was embarking on a brief solo adventure.

I pondered this as I ran through the Stanford streets the first night, the noisy Band Run crowd a large, enthusiastic stampede. There was no way that I could so much force myself to cry in such a circumstance; my legs burned with lactic acid and my lungs were breathing fire. I contemplated playing sad music in my dorm and forcing myself to feel the stereotypical sadness. I shot down the idea as soon as it came to mind; why would I want to cry on the first night?

But then again, why wasn’t I?

The following few days, too, were a blur. Frankly, if I can barely remember the names of people I've met—I usually get it on the third try, but still there are people who seem oddly familiar but whose names escape me—I can't really be expected to recount the details of the week. In one sense, perhaps it is good to remember only a blur. I wanted simply to be spontaneous, to enjoy college with the free, unhindered feeling of biking in the dark without a helmet. (Which happened only because my helmet fell off my ponytailed head so many times that I gave up.)

Finally, on one of the last nights of NSO, a realization came to me as the freshman class danced under the stars.

This is the same sky, the same constellations I memorized during my summer astronomy phase. And I can no longer point excitedly to Cygnus and blurt out “Cassiopeia! Up on your left!” to my mother.

They’re not here.

And I realized that the last time I’d danced in Arrillaga—five months ago, during Admit Weekend—home had a very different meaning. Home was still Louisville.

That’s not true anymore.

In that moment, dancing in a crowd but alone in my mind, reality at last began to seep in.

I hesitate, however, to call this moment an epiphany. Indeed, reality slips in and out; there are still moments in which I forget, forget that I am at school and that there is a permanence to this new routine. And most likely it will take some time, after the p-sets roll in and my own schedule becomes more finalized.

Until then, my heart is full as I gaze out my window, caught in the swift currents of change, nostalgia, and reality.