On Saturday, April 21, I rolled over in my bed as the late morning rays shone through my dorm room window. As is my annoying habit as a college student in 2018, the first object my hands reached for was my iPhone charging on my adjacent dresser. I opened my email. I scrolled.

I read an email first from the president of my university, then from my professor. Then another one from my professor again. Then one from the university again. Then one from the counseling center.

Every single one reading that a freshman student named Maggie O'Sullivan had passed away unexpectedly in her dorm room in Johnson Hall during the night.

I was not best friends with Maggie, and I cannot imagine the pain of those who had the privilege of being close to her. I knew her as the independent, expressive girl who sat in the middle of the classroom of our shared feminist theory seminar--my favorite class this semester. I knew her as a young woman who passionately advocated for gender equality, who always wore a smile with a frayed denim jacket donning colorful buttons, and who had a rockin' taste in music.

We were assigned to the same group for a project that we had to present for the class. I remember the Wednesday before the Friday of her passing, we met on the second floor of Starbucks to discuss how we would research body issues/eating disorder issues on our campus.

Maggie leaned over, she saw my Spotify playlist entitled "Surf Rock Sunshine," and her eyes lit up in instant enthusiasm the way they did when she spoke in class. "Wow, that's such a rad playlist, right?" she said to me. I answered, "Yeah! It's pretty great. Great for summertime. It gives off so many 'freedom-ish' vibes." She agreed, and we laughed at my awkward, yet somehow appropriate, adjective.

I could have never, ever for a moment believed that she would not see summertime again. I did not think that she would text in our group chat the next morning, informing us that she had woken up with a fever and would not be able to attend class. I did not think that she would be gone within twenty-four hours. No one did.

Why would anyone? After all, we are eighteen with the world ahead of us. We are invincible. We are not supposed to die, but to live. We are supposed to embody those "freedom-ish vibes."

I've been thinking about that freedom quite a bit, Maggie. I've been listening to "Surf Rock Sunshine," and I've been dancing in my dorm room to more indie rock. I've decided to try talking to that guy, after all, just to see where it goes--nothing going anywhere, though, without explicit consent (@you, patriarchy).

I'm trying to be more outspoken about my feminist beliefs, be an individual in the way that you were. I've decided to start waving at my classmates more as I pass them on the quad, initiating more conversations with the people who sit across from me in the library or on the second floor of Starbucks.

Because as much we would like to pretend we are invincible or immortal, Maggie has reminded us that we are not. We only have today to be as free as we have ever been or ever will be--free to be our individual selves, free to build relationships, free to be confident in our opinions even if others do not agree.

Maggie's absence is felt. In the middle of Room 314 in Wingate Hall every Tuesday and Thursday 9:30 A.M.-10:45 A.M., there will be an empty desk where a beautiful, clever, spirited young feminist once sat. There will be a table in Starbucks that I will never again sit in without remembering her presence. There will be a Spotify playlist full of songs that will remind me now of my own mortality, even in my youth.

They will remind me of you, Maggie O'Sullivan. They will remind me of your smile, your optimism, and your relentless desire for justice. May you rest in peace.

This next playing of "Avant Gardener" by Courtney Bennett goes out to you.