HOLLOWED: A Campus Love Story

My story 2

Among four children, I was the third. My two older siblings were already chasing dreams across oceans, carving out their futures abroad. At home, it was just my younger brother and me, nestled in the warmth of our parents’ love, still caught between childhood and whatever lay ahead.

So when the news finally came that Friday that I had been admitted,it felt like the sun had come out just for me. I remember running, breathless and wide eyed, to find my mom. I could hardly get the words out through my excitement, but once I did, her entire face lit up with joy. Her smile was everything: radiant, proud, and touched with tears she tried to blink away.

She hugged me like she’d been holding her breath for months.

And in that moment, all the waiting, all the worry it vanished. I had made it.

What I didn’t know then… was that this victory, this beginning, would soon lead me down a path I could never have imagined. One that would bring love, confusion, and a kind of heartbreak I wasn’t ready for.

But for now, all I felt was the rush of joy… and the promise of something new.

My mother made a quiet, selfless choice the year my father’s job began to pull him away more often than it kept him home. She stepped away from her own career not out of defeat, but out of deep, unwavering love. She chose, instead, to pour herself fully into the lives of her children, to become our steady presence in a world that often felt too fast, too uncertain.

She was firm, yes disciplined in her ways, with rules that felt etched in stone but beneath that strength was a tenderness we always felt, even if we didn’t fully understand it at the time. Her love was in the way she waited up when we were late, the way she called out reminders we rolled our eyes at, the way her hands always knew how to soothe, even when her words were sharp.

Over time, something in her softened. Maybe it was watching us grow, watching life settle into new rhythms. Whatever it was, her laughter became louder, her grip less tight. With my younger brother and me, she began to open up in little ways—letting her guard down, telling stories she once kept to herself, smiling more freely. And in those moments, I saw not just my mother, but the woman she was before us, and the woman she continued to become.

My father, on the other hand, remained a man of structure. A towering figure of discipline and principle, his expectations stood tall around us, like pillars we were expected to grow into. He was a man of deep faith and firm conviction someone who believed that the soul needed as much tending as the mind.

Sunday mornings were sacred. We rose early, the house alive with the scent of brewing coffee and the soft rustle of Bibles being zipped into leather cases. Church wasn’t just routine it was a cornerstone. My father didn’t just want us to attend; he wanted us to belong to sing, to serve, to listen, to lead. He believed that true character was shaped not just at home or in school, but in the sanctuary, where our hearts were meant to learn humility, purpose, and grace.

Our home was built on faith. It wrapped around us like a warm, invisible thread sometimes comforting, sometimes restrictive, but always present. My parents, especially my father, made sure of that. They raised us with a deep reverence for God, for truth, for doing what was right even when it wasn’t easy.

It was a beautiful kind of upbringing, rich in love and layered in expectation. And it shaped me more than I realized especially when I found myself facing choices that would pull at the very fabric of what I’d always believed.

Because soon enough, everything I thought I knew would be tested. Especially when he came into my life.

Growing up, our world was small carefully constructed, closely guarded, and wrapped in the illusion of safety. My parents, in their deep and well meaning desire to protect us from the dangers they believed lurked just beyond the gate, built a life that kept us hidden from the outside world. Within those walls, we had warmth, discipline, and structure but what we didn’t have was freedom.

Our home, though filled with love, often felt more like a fortress. And sometimes… like a prison.

We weren’t allowed to roam the neighborhood like other children. There were no sleepovers, no spontaneous visits to a friend’s house, no messy, sun drenched afternoons filled with laughter and scraped knees. My childhood was absent of playdates and birthday parties and secrets whispered between friends under trees. The fear of disobedience and worse, of disappointing our parents was enough to keep us obedient, our longing tucked quietly behind our eyes.

On countless days, my younger brother and I would press our faces to the gate, watching the world unfold without us. Children darted past with untamed joy, their giggles like music we weren’t allowed to dance to. We’d watch them, hearts tight with yearning, wondering what it felt like to run freely, to fall and rise and fall again, without anyone rushing to stop you.

After my older siblings left the country, chasing dreams on distant shores, the silence deepened. Their absence echoed through the halls of our house, and our world grew even smaller. The weight of solitude settled over us like dust that no one bothered to sweep away.

School became our only escape. A fleeting taste of life beyond the gate, where we could laugh a little too loud and walk a little too slow on the way home, just to stretch the feeling of being out. Church, too, offered a brief reprieve a different kind of sanctuary, one where hymns and fellowship replaced the suffocating quiet of our rooms.

But those hours were short, and eventually, we’d return to the safety of our home… and to its shadows.

It wasn’t all darkness. There was love, discipline, and the comfort of routine. But beneath it all, there was also a quiet ache a longing for a life just out of reach. For connection. For friendship. For more.

And maybe that’s why, when I finally stepped into the world beyond those walls… I stepped too eagerly. Maybe that’s why, when he smiled at me like I was someone worth seeing, I fell so fast.

Because when you’ve been starved of light for so long, even a flicker can feel like the sun