I Don’t Know How To Say Goodbye, But I Can Try

When the Hot Priest asked Fleabag if she was a nostalgic person, he was talking about me. These are excerpts from my memories. 

I moved into a square-shaped room on August 24, 2021, with some girl I met on Instagram in April of that same year. When dawn broke every morning, our room filled with sunlight that made the entire room glow. It bounced off the wooden furniture and white walls adorned with warm-toned prints, an abundance of plants (a few of which I killed), and a Scentsy that always had everyone saying, “Oh my god, it smells so good in here.” 

1316 was one of the smaller rooms amongst our friends, but it still felt like home to everyone––the three square feet of open space be damned. It was one of the best places I’ve ever known. We spun vinyls on my Urban Outfitters suitcase record player that did more harm than good. We lured a pair of boys into our room with the prospect of “WE HAVE A FISH!” when they had mistaken our door for someone else’s. We posted polls on our door for others to answer, and put out a bucket of candy for passersby in October and in February. We sat in the dark lit up by desktop mirrors, hair pinned back, makeup brushes in hand, and got ready for disgustingly sweaty nights in the basements of Allston apartments—and made many trips to El Jefe’s upon our return home from rat city. We swapped war stories with each other about the many hours we spent in food service. We waited up for each other. Spoke quietly while the other one napped for thirty minutes between classes. Watched the same shows on repeat to feel a sense of normalcy while so much of our lives changed. And we became intertwined faster than I could have ever imagined. The only nights I spent missing home were the ones I spent by myself. 

Somehow, a group of people I met six weeks prior changed my definition of home. They flipped it upside down, shook it around, rearranged it, rotated it ninety degrees. It was awful and wonderful and exciting and nerve-wracking and everything in between. I wouldn't want it any other way. 

From 1316 we graduated to 1313, and with that came two more roommates and more floor space than had ever seemed possible. We spent so much time on that floor, whether lying together, dancing, practicing Sun A and B, eating chips and salsa, speaking to the guys who lived across from us in smiles and waves, laughing so hard we cried, and crying so hard we laughed. I spent hours on my computer fighting for Eras Tour tickets. Cut bangs for the first time in that bathroom. Maggie Rogers. Radio shows. Photoshoots in forty-miles-per-hour wind and hail. Shirley temples, Kodak Gold, and a memorable house show. Another year gone. It always goes faster than you think you want it to.

From there we moved upstairs to 1703. Three always stuck with me. I didn’t plan on graduating college early, but here I stand purchasing grad caps and gowns to grab my diploma in May. This year was the hardest. For a lot of reasons. The highlights include a Boygenius bender, jury duty (seriously), so many birthdays, and a few apple pies. 

I can try to quantify my college experience: three dorm rooms, twenty concerts, fifteen rolls of film, one drive to Maryland and back, over three hundred hours on an airplane, twenty-seven professors, thirty-six posters, over one million laughs, about three hundred cries (maybe more), two dozen frat parties, and so many people I can’t say goodbye to. 

I will always be a nostalgic person, I think that’s why I like film so much. I will keep taking pictures of everything. I will keep writing about everything. I’m not terrified of forgetting, I’m terrified of not remembering—and they aren’t the same. 

As I’ve continued to grow up, as more people in my life have been born and died, more people entered and exited my life, more people I have loved and hated and learned to mourn while still living, I won’t say goodbye. These are excerpts from my memories. I can’t say goodbye, but maybe it’ll pass.