The one in the dark

chapter: departure

I barely slept.

Not because I was heartbroken.

Not because I was anxious.

But because every time I closed my eyes, I saw movement. Change. A future unfolding too quickly to grasp.

When my alarm rang at 5:30 a.m., I was already awake.

The sky outside my window was still pale, the kind of early morning that feels suspended between endings and beginnings. For a moment, I lay still, listening to the quiet hum of the house.

My last morning here.

I sat up slowly and looked around my room. It felt stripped down now, not empty, but paused. My suitcase stood by the door like it was impatient.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Let’s go.”

The shower was quick. Practical. No lingering. I chose comfortable clothes for the flight, fitted jeans, a soft sweater, sneakers. My hair fell naturally around my shoulders, and I kept my makeup light. Today wasn’t about impressing anyone.

It was about crossing over.

Downstairs, I did one last walk-through of the house. Checked the windows. Touched the back of the couch absentmindedly. My fingers brushed the kitchen counter where Kaitlyn and I had stood just yesterday morning.

I didn’t linger.

I picked up my suitcase, locked the door, and didn’t look back until I was already halfway to the car.

The drive to the airport felt surreal.

The streets were quieter at that hour. Streetlights still glowing faintly. A few early commuters. A bakery opening for the day.

Everything normal.

Everything unchanged.

Except me.

At the airport, the world felt loud and alive, wheels rolling over tile floors, announcements echoing overhead, hurried footsteps. People were leaving and arriving and crying and hugging all at once.

I checked in, handed over my luggage, and held onto my carry-on like it was something grounding.

When I finally reached my gate, I sat by the large window overlooking the runway. Planes lifted into the sky one by one, disappearing into clouds.

Soon, that would be me.

I pulled out my phone.

No new messages, not that it mattered anymore.

I opened my acceptance email instead.

We are pleased to offer you admission…

I read it again, letting it anchor me.

When boarding was announced, my heart began to race.

This was it.

As I stepped onto the plane, I felt something settle inside me, not fear, not doubt.

Certainty.

I was leaving everything familiar behind.

And for the first time in days, I didn’t feel like I was running away.

I felt like I was walking toward something.

London greeted me with grey skies and a cool breeze that wrapped around my skin the moment I stepped outside the airport.

It felt different immediately.

Bigger.

Older.

Alive in a way that hummed beneath the surface.

The taxi ride toward the university felt like flipping through the pages of a history book. Stone buildings, narrow streets, black iron railings, buses painted in unmistakable red. The architecture wasn’t loud, it was dignified. Steady. As if it had been standing there for centuries and would continue long after I was gone.

When the taxi finally slowed near the university grounds, my breath caught.

The buildings rose in pale honey-colored stone, weathered but magnificent. Gothic arches framed tall wooden doors. Ivy crept up ancient walls as if it belonged there. Spires pierced the sky, sharp and elegant, pointing upward like ambition carved into architecture.

Students moved across the courtyard in clusters, coats draped over shoulders, books tucked under arms, voices low and thoughtful.

I stepped out of the taxi slowly.

The air smelled faintly of rain and old paper.

Gravel crunched under my shoes as I wheeled my suitcase forward. My eyes traced every detail, the intricate carvings above doorways, stained glass windows catching the faint afternoon light, the echo of distant church bells ringing somewhere beyond view.

It didn’t feel like a campus.

It felt like a story.

Like the kind of place where words mattered.

I walked beneath a towering archway and into one of the main quadrangles. The courtyard was perfectly kept, green grass trimmed neatly, pathways symmetrical, benches placed with intention.

For a moment, I simply stood there.

I imagined all the students who had walked these same paths before me. Scholars. Writers. Thinkers. People who once stood exactly where I was standing, overwhelmed and hopeful.

“You’re here,” I whispered to myself.

This wasn’t a dream.

This wasn’t a plan scribbled in a notebook at 3 a.m.

This was real stone beneath my fingertips when I reached out and touched the wall beside me.

Cold.

Solid.

Enduring.

Somewhere nearby, a clock chimed the hour.

And as the sound echoed across the courtyard, I felt something shift inside me again, not heartbreak, not anger.

Belonging.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about who had betrayed me.

I wasn’t thinking about what I lost.

I was thinking about who I could become.

London stretched around me, vast, beautiful, and unknowable.

And I had just stepped into it's pages.

The clock’s chime was still echoing in my ears when I finally forced my feet to move.

Belonging was a fragile feeling. I didn’t want to stand there long enough to doubt it.

I followed the signs toward the College Accommodation Office, my suitcase wheels bumping softly over uneven stone. The corridors inside were quieter, lined with framed portraits of former scholars whose oil-painted eyes seemed to follow every student that passed beneath them.

The office itself was tucked behind a carved wooden door with frosted glass.

I stepped inside.

Warm lighting. Polished desks. Shelves stacked with neatly labeled files. A faint scent of old paper and something floral lingered in the air.

A woman with silver-framed glasses looked up from behind the desk.

“Hello,” she said warmly. “You must be one of our new arrivals.”

“Yes,” I replied, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “I’m here for accommodation check-in.”

She asked for my name, typed it into her computer, and smiled.

“Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting you.”

The words made my chest flutter.

She reached into a small drawer and placed a set of keys on the desk between us. Three keys on a simple metal ring, each labeled with a small white tag.

“St. Alden House,” she said. “Third floor. Flat 3B. You’ll be sharing with two other students.”

Two.

My stomach tightened slightly, not in fear, just awareness.

“One of them has already moved in,” she added, glancing back at her screen. “The other tends to arrive… later.”

“Later?” I repeated.

She smiled faintly. “Different schedules. You’ll all find your rhythm.”

There was something about the way she said it that felt oddly intentional, but I brushed it off.

She slid a folder across the desk toward me. “Your room key is the smaller one. The larger key is the flat entrance. And this,” she tapped the third, “is for your mailbox.”

I picked up the keys.

They felt heavier than they looked.

“Welcome to Oxford,” she said.

“Thank you.”

St. Alden House was a short walk from the main quadrangle. The building was tall and narrow, built from the same honeyed stone, with ivy curling lazily up one side.

Inside, the stairwell spiraled upward, lit by tall windows that let in pale afternoon light. My suitcase felt heavier with each step, but I didn’t mind.

Third floor.

Flat 3B.

I stood in front of the door for a second before sliding the larger key into the lock.

The click echoed softly in the quiet hallway.

The flat was modest but charming wooden floors, cream-colored walls, large windows overlooking a narrow street below. A small shared kitchen sat to the left, with two mugs already placed neatly beside the sink.

Someone had been here.

I rolled my suitcase inside and closed the door behind me.

“Hello?” I called out gently.

Silence.

Either my roommate wasn’t home, or she preferred not to answer.

I walked down the short hallway until I found three doors.

Room A.

Room B.

Room C.

Mine was B.

I unlocked it slowly.

The room was simple but beautiful in its own quiet way. A neatly made bed. A wooden desk positioned beside a tall window. Bookshelves built into the wall. A small wardrobe. Soft grey bedding that matched the overcast sky outside.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

This was mine.

I set my suitcase down and walked to the window. The view wasn’t grand, just rooftops, chimneys, and a stretch of cobbled street below, but it felt cinematic.

Foreign.

New.

I opened the window slightly, letting in the cool London air.

Somewhere downstairs, a door shut.

Footsteps echoed faintly in the stairwell.

I froze for just a second.

Then shook my head.

New building. New sounds. That’s all.

I moved back to the center of the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

Two roommates.

One already here.

One who arrived “later.”

I didn’t know why that lingered in my mind.

Maybe because of everything that had happened back home. Maybe because I was hyper-aware now. Guarded.

Still, I pushed the thought aside.

This was a fresh start.

No betrayal.

No shared history.

Just me and a city that didn’t know me yet.

I reached for my suitcase and began unpacking.