I felt like a visitor in my own home. In fact, my first thought when I moved in again was the sweet thought of turning back around and withdrawing. Besides, it wasn't even my own room; I had a suitemate to consider, who brought her whole house with her. At least this was an apartment style residence and not one room. But like a visitor, even with my own bed spread and slippers, I couldn't fully live here. The windows should always be closed and locked. Don't keep your towels in the bathroom when housekeeping arrives (even though everyone did it anyway). Absolutely no noise past ten o'clock.

I lived at home under the swift assumption that I'd move out the moment I turned eighteen. By my mid-teens, I was just "staying over" or "a guest" until I somehow acquired the savings to find a house. Not an apartment. A house. An unconditionally loved, conditionally living resident.

My cousin Leiah lived right across the hall. Her moving in was decadent and full of wonder. Her suitemate was cool and smokey-eyed, with an aura of comfort. She even helped Leiah carry her belongings and arrange them when her mom and dad left. My moving in was quick, painless, and devoid of any feeling. I wasn't even excited to meet anyone, not even last year when I first arrived. As far as I expected, I wouldn't meet anyone. I lowered my expectations months before, so I wouldn't be utterly disappointed. Just like before.

We had a floor meeting, where all of us, on any given day of the week, would meet in the lobby to go over the rules again. The volume was lower than I expected. Sure, it could've been our "maturity"—we weren't high-schoolers or freshmen anymore—but this wasn't a teacher telling their class to be quiet. It was one student telling other students how to behave. Even when she asked if we had any questions, everyone waited for everyone to say something, and no one did.

My first night was cold. My dream was black. It was the last time I'd see my suitemate for the first few weeks besides every blue moon when she came back for her toothbrush or perfume. So at least I was alone, just as expected, which I was proud of despite it just being a coincidence. Maybe that's why we were paired up. This was their compromise.

I planned a diet for myself for the entire year. No carbs or sugar, plenty of water, and no snacking. Breakfast was never a thought either. I woke up too late at home for any meal to be considered breakfast. Of course, that was just a plan. A mental plan—because I was too hesitant to put it in writing.

I had a painting class (the most expensive class, supplies-wise), a history class, a photography class, and a math class. On my first day of all of them, we had ice-breakers, which is when the class gets familiarized with their peers. Everyone gave a name, a major, and maybe something extra depending on the class. In painting, it was our favorite artist. In photography, it was our hometown. Math was a talent we had. In History, it was a historical fun fact.

The professor told us to talk to the three people closest to us. No one seemed to want to, but they did anyway.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

I sat at the table farthest in the back. No one sat beside me, and the guy in front of me just scrolled through his phone, drinking Red Bull. I did the same (minus the energy drink). No one sat beside him either.

At the end of my classes, I went to eat lunch with Leiah in the dining hall. She ate spaghetti and a cupcake. I had a plain salad with nothing to drink. It was only healthy, after all. That's what I told myself. Even then, the olive oil dressing was too dense with sugar—so I barely ate.

My stomach longed for something in the hours after, as I stared at my laptop with a stream of thoughts flooding my head. Dinner came and went. Leiah ate chicken noodle soup, a fruit salad, and washed it down with homemade lemonade. I had a plain salad with nothing to drink. It was only healthy, after all. That's what I told myself, at least. Even then, the apple vinegar was too dense with salt—so I barely ate.

Second half of the week, I had a painting class, a history class, a photography class, and a math class. On my second day of all of them, we had a discussion, which is when the class gets familiarized with the most eager and talkative student among their peers. Everyone gave some glances, a nod, and maybe something extra depending on the class. In painting, it was our favorite artist. In photography, it was our hometown. Math was an answer to a problem. In History, it was what we knew about pre-contact America.

The professor told us to talk to the three people closest to us. No one seemed to want to, but they did anyway.

I sat at the table farthest in the back. No one sat beside me. The guy in front of me looked up and parted his lips, but he shook his head and scrolled through his phone. I did the same. No one sat beside him either.

After classes on Thursday, I walked back out into the waning Summer. My jacket was now way too thin and goosebumps covered my arms. I met with Leiah at the dorms to drop off my bookbag before we went to get something to eat.

We walked under the beautiful garden tunnel that led to the Student Commons. A group of girls passed by.

"Oh my God, I didn't have a Butterfinger in ages!" one girl said. "I have to get one now."

"I thought they were recalled or something," another said.

Leiah nudged my arm. "This is the 700th time I heard about Butterfingers today!"

I giggled. "When was the first?"

"This morning, Emily was eating one. Then I saw a dude eating one in a video. Now this!"

"Wow."

"You know how when you see something for the first time, you start seeing it everywhere? This is something else. Now I want one."

"Maybe they have them in the vending machine."

"Hopefully."

We got a panini from one of the on-campus restaurants, and a Butterfinger that we split between us. It was delicious.