August
My mom always tells me not to worry. She kisses my hair and says, “Your whole life is in the hand of God,” as she drives me to college. A song plays on the radio. It is by Jon Bellion. My stomach hurts and my heart is heavy. I know my mom is trying to hold back tears. The sun is rising and it highlights her hair gold. She hums along, “When you’re lost in the universe, lost in the universe, don’t lose faith.”
September
I listen to Shawn Mendes in my dorm room, with earbuds in and the volume up high. My roommate and I stay up until midnight to hear his new album the moment it is released. Classes have been in session for nearly a month. I have never been away from home for this long before, and I feel myself growing. Later yet, I meditate on lyrics from the new album. I put the song "Understand" on repeat. It is a song about growth and change and staying true to who you are. I mouth the lyrics silently. The words take a new form in my head, they are no longer just verses, but promises.
October
On one of the first Saturdays of the new month, I am at my first college party. Students crowd into Kennedy Apartments. It is just a tangle of human flesh and sweat. The multicolored Christmas lights that are tacked up along the walls cast a strange red hue over everyone’s faces. I catch a glimpse of a girl I barely know. She is dancing; arms up, palms out, but her mascara is smudging. It is an imperfection that takes the glamour out of it, an imperfection that makes it real. The guy who has the aux cord is on my swim team. His grin as he cues up the next song is lit by his phone screen. It reminds me of that eerie moment when someone tells ghost stories around the campfire at night to make everyone scream. When he plays “Every Time We Touch” the entire mass goes crazy. Everyone is jumping; the floor shakes. I jump with them, conforming to the insanity as I scream. My body convulses with the beat. Our voices blend to one, yet the sound is anything but harmonious. Whenever my feet hit the floor I feel my bones rattle, tremble, and jolt. Thrilling.
November
Nothing seems to be going my way. I procrastinate a paper; I do poorly on an exam; I don’t get enough sleep; my friends are all annoyed with me; I am homesick; and I eat my feelings in ice-cream. My feet pound up the stairs as I run to my dorm room. A scream, muffled by my pillow, fills the air. Yet, the tightness in my throat does not subside. I breathe deeply, deeply, deeply. Then, I lock myself in my room and do not come out until my work is done and I am able to smile without grimacing. My roommate makes me a mug of hot chocolate, and I sit at my desk, writing, in our room lit by moonlight. It is hard to listen to happy songs when you are sad. I try not to murmur along to the verses, “Will we ever get to the other side? / Don’t know but I swear I’ll die trying,” my roommate sleeps peacefully as the dark sky opens up. Rain patters against our window. I let go of the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
December
For a while, I am home for the holidays. The night I get back, all my favorite people are gathered in the cozy kitchen. My mom is there, baking cookies, my sister chatting about turtles, my dad hugging me tight, my brother explaining his new video game, my best friend showing me a new song. I pause to listen—it paints my world in colors I did not know existed. The beat is magnetic. To me, love is two people dancing in the kitchen. So, my best friend and I dance, “You and I, we’re waves on the ocean, you and I, stars in slow motion.” I fill up with enough happiness that, even when the world takes and takes and takes; I can still be overflowing.
January
“Keeping Your Head Up” plays in my earbuds. I walk, unaccompanied, to class. I find comfort in the fact that I can be alone and not be lonely. For I have found that the only cure for doubt, fear, and loneliness is an immense amount of self-love. Surrounded by a fresh layer of snow that glistens in a new day’s early light, my good mood heightens. A girl from my Spanish class smiles at me as she passes. I look forward, seeing nothing but sunshine.
February
My two friends and I are in a car, driving to the mall. We need a taste of metropolis. The windows are cracked open. It is unbelievably warm for late February. One of my friends smirks triumphantly as she chooses the next song. She tells us it’s an oldie but a goodie. We laugh as Lindsey Lohan’s husky voice begins to sing, “You’re the kind of friend who always bends when I’m broken…” I whip my hair and twist my torso the only ways I can, while still being restricted by a seatbelt. We are not just driving, we are soaring, giddy with the knowledge that we have an anthem.
March
I did not cry when my sweet roommate reveals her scarred wrists to me. Instead, I grab her by the fingertips and dial up the volume of “Barcelona.” I dance with her, swaying and giggling. Her eyes are rimmed red and her face ashen white. Her dark hair blooms around her, mocking a halo, as she bounces to the beat with me—a fallen angel. The words tumble out of my mouth easily, “We’re going somewhere where the sun is shining bright / Just close your eyes and let’s pretend we’re dancing in the street, in Barcelona.” My only thought, my only hope is that I can keep her darkness at bay; and I will the dawn to come faster and brighter than ever before. Later, I find myself in the bathroom, confirming that I am alone, and sinking to the floor. Only then do I allow myself to cry. She told me the pain is better now and that she is recovering. Yet, I think back on how I used to think she was the sweetest, happiest person I had met at Wooster—she still is. But I hate that I had not seen it. I hate that I had never looked long enough to notice the cracks in her smile.
April
I, once again, find myself crushed into a mass of people. I am at the front of the crowd, this time, only a few feet away from the stage. My body is charged with the energy from the atmosphere. The lights dim to foreshadow the band’s arrival. The crowd erupts in a commotion. A single girl’s scream pierces through the low howl. I look back to where my sister and her boyfriend stand, two people separating us. They have their arms around each other, their faces are bright and their eyes aglow. She catches my eye. I grin broadly as she shouts my name. The commotion of the crowd intensifies. I see her reach a hand out to me; it extends up and over the people between us. She stretches it towards me; across a void, across a chasm. A lyric unfolds in my mind from a song she just shared with me earlier that night, “Because we were made for love.” Our hands lock together just as the lights on the stage surge to life. My heart nearly bursts as I stand there—not dancing for once—in all my human ruins, in all my shining inadequacy, loving and loving and loving.
