Edited by Sanvi Rawat
Me, just like everyone else came to college with a suitcase, a dozen questions, and a heart that wasn’t quite sure how to beat in a place that didn’t yet feel like home. Everything was new—the faces, the buildings, the way the light hit the pavement. First-year me was filled with dreams and doubts in equal measure, unsure of where she’d fit in or how she’d grow into this unfamiliar space. But college has a gentle way of opening itself up to you. Slowly, quietly, it lets you find your corners. And somehow, without even noticing it, you begin to belong.
Now, as I wrap up my freshman year, I want to say goodbye—not to a place, but to the version of me that was built here. And I want to do it by thanking the places that made room for me when she needed it most.
To the Benches on the Sunken Field,
Thank you for being there at 4 AM, when silence wrapped around everything except for the conversations that mattered. Those benches saw versions of me I wasn’t ready to share with the world—tired, overwhelmed, quietly contemplative, but always surrounded by people who made it okay to be all of that and more. We talked about life, about the future, about people we missed and people we wished we’d met sooner. You held our words like secrets and gave back to us clarity. You made nighttime feel safe, like the world could pause while we figured out how to breathe through it all.
To the Lawns near the Hand Statue,
Thank you for the view. You gave me a canvas of the entire campus, but more than that, you gave me space. On days when the world felt too heavy, I’d sit on that grass and feel the noise fade away. You helped me listen to the breeze, to the quiet, and sometimes, to myself. You were where I would return to breathe, to think, and to remember that stillness is sometimes the most powerful kind of movement.
To the Rooftop at AC04,
Thank you for your openness. You held late evening laughter and quiet reflection with equal grace. We looked out at the city lights, spoke of things that mattered and things that didn’t, and somehow, in that mix, I felt lighter. That rooftop reminded me that looking up is sometimes all it takes to feel grounded.
To the Mess Lawns,
Thank you for holding the sun in just the right way. You were where procrastination met productivity; where we’d spread out our books and pretend we were working, only to get lost in each other’s company. But somehow, it worked. Somehow, just sitting there gave us the motivation we needed to write that essay, finish that reading, or at least try. You reminded me that effort doesn’t always look like intensity, sometimes it looks like sitting cross-legged in the grass with a pen in one hand and a friend on the other side.
To Fuelzone,
Thank you for knowing that sometimes, a cup of coffee isn’t about caffeine—it’s about ritual. You were there on mornings that felt like midnights, offering small sips of comfort when sleep was sacrificed to screens and schedules. Somehow, you made exhaustion feel manageable, and routine felt just a little brighter. You didn’t just serve coffee—you were a hug in a paper cup.
To the Hideout Café (or as we like to call you, TKS),
Thank you for being unapologetically loud just like we were. You were the place where the noise didn’t demand an apology, where laughter echoed off the walls and the late-night rush made it feel like the heartbeat of the campus. In that chaos, there was release. You reminded me that it was okay to be carefree, even just for an hour. That not every night had to be productive, some just had to be ours.
To RH4 Commons,
Thank you for your strange serenity. Somehow, in that sterile, fluorescent-lit space, I found a community however temporary or silent. You taught me that productivity doesn’t always need pressure. That studying together, even without speaking, can feel like solidarity. You saw me in moments of focus, frustration, and quiet triumph—and never asked for anything in return.
To Blue Tokai,
Thank you for every crinkle cookie that turned a regular day into a better one. You were my quiet indulgence, my tiny celebration. There was something about walking in, choosing that one perfect cookie, and sitting down for just ten minutes, allowing me to pause the world around me. In your soft lighting and quiet corners, I found stillness. You were a reminder that sometimes, joy is just a cookie away.
To the MPH,
Thank you for reintroducing me to parts of myself I thought I’d left behind. You brought me back to the thrill of badminton, to the calm focus of billiards. You reminded me that games weren’t just for competition—they were for connection. The feel of a racket in my hand, the soft clack of pool balls breaking—it all felt like home in a way I didn’t know I missed. You gave me confidence, community, and the joy of trying again.
And Finally, to My Room,
Thank you for being mine. You saw the tears no one else did, the essays written at 3 AM, the days I didn’t want to get out of bed, and the nights I didn’t want to sleep. You heard the late-night rants, the excited voice notes, and the silence that sometimes followed. But above all, you were home. Because of the little things: a roommate who became family; the fairy lights that flickered just right; the blanket I wrapped myself in after hard days, you were the one place where I could fall apart and be okay. Thank you for that.
As I walk away from this first year, I don’t leave it behind, rather I carry it with me. It’s in the way that I now sit on a bench and listen more deeply. In how I find quiet corners when I need to think. In the joy I feel when a cookie crumbles just right.
These places didn’t just fill my time, they filled my heart. They held me while I figured out who I was, while I tried and failed and tried again. And now, as I grow into someone a little older, a little more sure, I want to thank first-year Nishka for being brave enough to arrive, and open enough to stay.
And to all the places that welcomed first-year Nishka:
I’ll see you around.