The gravel grinds in a satisfying crunch under my sneakers with each step as a warm drizzle envelops me in its fresh, familiar aroma. Each scrape of scraggly rocks seems to grate a new emotion into my heart: Adventure, homesickness, elation, anxiety.

As I round the corner of the pebbly pathway, my breath hitches when blotches of vibrant color invade my line of vision: cherry, peach, bubble gum, pale pumpkin orange, coral and buttercup yellow.

Three weeks have passed, and I am finally rediscovering the rose garden. In three weeks, I have made a half-dozen faux-friends, located each academic building, learned how to navigate the college cafeteria, attended an open-mic, raised my hand once in class to share an insight into a work of literature, and tagged along downtown with my roommate using the campus shuttle. Three weeks ago, I wandered dead-end circles around this secret garden with my mother and father on either side of me. Today, I stand in the middle of it, utterly alone.

I meander the garden maze, staring at each rose bush, blinking in its beauty. Blinking back tears. Drinking in the late summer Oregon mist through prolonged inhales. Tracing circles with my footsteps until I make it to the furthest edges of the garden.

Raising my chin for the first time, my line of vision expands, taking in the horizon beyond my university campus. A row of houses in the cloudy distance, browns and beiges and pale greens and blues, where families live. Children at home with their parents, where they belong.

Eventually, I crunch my way out of the garden, twisting my neck to steal a final glance at the rose rainbow. My lips quiver into a smile as a spiderweb of subtle thrill tickles through all my organs.

Back in my dorm room, I power on my laptop to check the discussion thread for Professor Sharp's class. I re-read my initial response to the prompt, then scan the other students' answers, satisfied that my insights are on par with everyone else's. Brett—the kid with the brown sandals who loves to hear himself talk—has several careless grammar errors throughout his writing.

A miniature red "1" in the corner of the grades tab alerts me of a new notification, and I click it with dizzy fingers. My heart is pounding as I open my most recent writing assignment and scour Sharp's comments. Unlike my high school teachers, he offers no compliments of my writing or ideas, no overall appraisal of my work to indicate whether or not it is acceptable. Instead, he picks apart every detail, challenging me to go deeper, clarify or reconsider my points. One comment alerts me to the misuse of an em dash.

"I can see the wheels are turning here..." His final comment sounds vaguely positive, but as I finally pry my stinging eyes away from the screen, my head is buzzing with uncertainty and self-doubt.

Returning to the module, I click into the essay instructions that Professor Sharp promised to post. My chest tightens as I scan the complex, multi-question prompt. It's comprehensible, but I'm battling a pervasive floating sensation—disconnected from reality—dread spinning circles like poison infecting my bloodstream.

To clear my head, I step out of my dorm and drift down the hallway to the lounge to fill up my water bottle. On the way back to my room, I spot Josué gliding towards me from the opposite direction. I'm in no mood to deal with him.

He holds up a lime green flier and waves it side to side to attract my attention.

"This is a super rad volunteer opportunity, if you'd like to join us next Saturday!"

"Saturday Picnic in the Park," I read timidly off the flier. It's for an organization that feeds the unhoused every weekend. "Thanks, I might join."

"When people say they 'might' do something, that generally means they aren't interested, but they don't want to admit it directly. When you say you 'might' go, are you genuinely considering it? Or are you too afraid of telling me the truth? I assure you that my feelings won't be hurt if you don't attend, but my soul might secretly cry knowing you're this intimidated by me."

Josué resembles no one I have ever known in my eighteen years on planet Earth. I can't place his tone; when he speaks, it's a smiley melodic babbling that washes over me, and I'm uncertain whether I'm drowning in hollow nothingness or profound truth.

"I actually might be interested," I reply, my voice empty.

"We meet out by the shuttle at 10:00am," he informs me, then continues to explain the logistics at machine gun speed but with the soft resonance of a trickling brook.

I leave the conversation feeling flushed, my underarms damp from sweat. After ducking back into the silence of my deserted Saturday afternoon dorm room, I inhale an extended, shaky breath, then pry a heavy stack of books from my backpack. I arrange three texts from my Inventing America class, heavily decorated in annotated post-its, across my narrow desk. Re-reading the essay prompt, I jot a basic outline into my notebook. Confidence and possibility pump through my system as if I were slurping down a long gulp of a hot, overly caffeinated beverage.

My fingers fly with authority across the keyboard, and soon an introductory paragraph materializes as if by magic.

During the first body paragraph, I'm interrupted three times by students looking for Krista. The de facto practice here is to party on Friday and Saturday, leaving assignments and study for Sunday afternoon. This sort of procrastination turns my stomach into knots, however; I prefer to finish my work earlier in the weekend. Besides, I don't drink and have no real friends with whom to hang out.

Somewhere around the second body paragraph, my train of logic begins twisting in frenetic, dead-end circles, not quite lining up with my thesis statement. I re-read my essay, check over my notes, peruse the texts for stronger evidence. The puzzle isn't clicking in the seamless way I'm accustomed to when I write. Backtracking, I reframe the thesis statement slightly, but panic begins to boil in my chest as the entire vision for the essay collapses inside my brain.

On the verge of tears, I dial my dad's cell phone, imagining I'll talk it through with him until the pieces shift back into place.

"¡Hola, m'hija!" Mom answers his phone with bright energy, and I note immediately from the background noise of animated chatter in Spanish that they are at a family gathering.

"Are you at Tía Magda's?" I ask.

"Sí, we came for Tío Carlos' birthday. Tus primos te mandan muchos saludos; te extrañan un montón."

"Tell them hi," I reply meekly.

"Is everything okay, mi amor?" Mom asks, sensing my tone.

"I'm having some trouble with an essay," I admit, my voice disintegrating. "But it's fine. I don't want to interrupt your outing."

"I'll text you when we get home," Mom replies, hugging me with the loving intonation of her words. I still feel the icy sting of isolation.

Just as I hang up with Mom, my heart saturated in dejection, there's a playful knock on the door. When I open up, Isla is standing in the frame with her hands clasped sweetly together, her short strawberry-blonde hair hanging silky, natural and free around her face. As soon as she greets me, water explodes from my eyes.

"Aw, are you homesick?" She intuits the exact cause of my meltdown in an instant, leaning into me with a warm hug.

My shoulders shake as giant droplets soak my cheeks. Isla gently rubs my back as if we have been friends our entire lives, and I feel my nervous system return to home base in a matter of minutes. Smearing the tears from my matted eyelashes, I blink in the vibrant, crystally colors around me filtered through a layer of saltwater, settling into the peacefulness that always follows a bout of crying.

"I came over to see if you wanted to go downstairs to play foosball. But if you aren't feeling up for it, I totally understand."

"We can go," I reply.

"It might be a nice distraction for you," Isla suggests with a tiny smile in the corner of her lips.

I inhale gratitude and exhale an acknowledgement that very soon, things might be fine.

* * *

"Let's go to the open mic tonight," Cora commands with nonchalance. "Kamden said he might sing."

"Sure, let's do it," Shia agrees with an equally even tonality.

My intuition clues me in to the insecurity this group of girls continues to battle a month into the school year. They are not fully themselves yet, afraid to show too much enthusiasm or open their true personalities and opinions to one another.

I have survived another week here at Lewis & Clark. My essay for Professor Sharp turned out decent, and I surprised Josué by attending the Picnic in the Park volunteer opportunity this morning. His wide grin and twinkling eyes when he spotted me waiting outside the shuttle sparked a gratifying sensation of smugness, as well as a slight flutter of something else in my stomach.

Krista and I attend the open mic with Cora, Leyla, Shia and Kamden, who seem to be the core group of friends we have developed. More accurately, they are Krista's friends, and I am included through proximity.

An adorable redhead with enormous dimples sings a catchy and clever original called "Crushing," and every female in the surrounding vicinity melts. Around me, a chorus of cooing and giggles flitters in the air, and all the girls' faces glow with gleaming smiles. The song is outstanding, but for whatever reason, the guy does nothing for me. He's too attractive, too polished.

Contentment settles into my nervous system as I relax into the music. I can't explain why I enjoy amateur singing performances so intensely. Something about the imperfect yet beautiful voices of people my age, their bravery to share an artistic talent in front of others, their vulnerability to risk making a mistake, all stir up deep emotions within me.

Kamden sings "Believer" by Imagine Dragons. His stripped back, acoustic version is lovely. His cheeks are dusted with light brown freckles that stand out under the bright lights, and his copper hair is styled in a purposely messy manner. As his voice soars and skates along the border of a slight crack, it occurs to me that at least one of the girls in our little crew must have a crush on him.

Midway through the piece, Kam seems to forget the words. He freezes mid-guitar stroke, the previous chord hanging in the air for a single extended moment, and tilts his eyes towards the heavens with a pleading, parted mouth; in the next instant, he seamlessly dives back into the song and finishes without a hitch. I find the whole thing incredibly endearing.

"Oh my God!" exclaims Leyla as we file out of the lounge after the event. "That redhead is soooo cute! I can't take it."

Krista, Shia and Cora giggle in agreement, adding commentary of their own. I never knew there were so many adjectives to describe a guy's physical attractiveness.

"You all want to take a walk?" asks Kamden. It's probably around 9:30pm, and the sky is charcoal black, though there is still a hint of late summer warmth in the air.

There are a couple other guys who hang out with us sometimes, but Kamden is a consistent presence in "our" (Krista's) group; he became instant friends with Cora and Leyla, who are roommates, during orientation. 

"Sure, why not?" Krista answers him, and the others assent as well. I'm ambivalent; it's one of those all-too-common moments in my introverted life in which the idea of partaking in the activity is far more appealing than the activity itself. Some peace and quiet reading alone in bed sounds exquisite right about now, yet I love the fact that I'm wandering the twisty, gravelly paths of my university campus with a group of normal—"cool," even—friends late on a Saturday night.

"This way!" Cora guides us with giggly enthusiasm past the reflecting pool and into a secluded area surrounded by thick bushes next to a tennis court. There's a small, rustic building wrapped with intricate, twisting designs of lush vines.

"I totally want to ask out that redhead!" Leyla blurts out. "That song was fire. Ugh, that voice!"

"Would you really?" Shia asks, her face gleaming with mischievous intrigue. "Ask him out? I would never have the courage to ask a guy out. I'd be too nervous!"

"His name is Nick," Kamden informs them. "He's in my Inventing America course."

"Seriously?" Leyla practically shrieks. "Why didn't you say so before? You have to introduce us. I am dying over here."

Everyone dissolves into snickers, except Kamden, who rolls his eyes. "Sure, I will find a way to introduce you. Promise." He crosses his heart with an elaborate gesture of his fingers.

"What are you doing?" Krista jabs in her husky, no-nonsense tone. "The Catholic cross?"

"I'm crossing my heart!" Kam defends, grinning in amusement.

A bursting, lopsided moon illuminates the dark patch of lawn on which we find ourselves. Six strangers, sharing space and time, drawn together through circumstance. No longer teenagers, not quite adults, gallivanting around like mischievous children with no path or purpose. It's all very strange to me, but I no longer feel that persistent acidy lump in my throat. The night air, cold but still imbued with summerness, enters my lungs easily, light and silky, with a slight vibration of thrill.

"Let's climb up here!" exclaims Kam, the silliest and most adventurous of our group. He has discovered a textured pathway up the wall of the miniature, plant-covered house. He scurries up with steady, muscular movements. The girls follow, some more confident than others. Shia requires extra encouragement and a hand from Kamden. My heart pounds in my chest with my turn on the horizon. Despite my athleticism, I'm not good at climbing.

"You got it," Kam encourages me, his voice softening from its typical straightforward, often sarcastic timbre. As I reach the final maneuver to the roof, he grasps my hand and my whole arm in a gesture that wraps me in physical and emotional security. Not only am I completely confident that he won't let me slip, but his strong grip lets me know that he noticed my fear.

"Thank you. That was scary," I comment simply as I plop down next to him.

"You did it, good job," he responds back, his words dropping quietly right into my ears, and my body buzzes with that subtle jitter I get whenever a boy is close to me—even a boy I don't necessarily have a crush on.

Silver stars glitter above us in the black velvet sky as my almost-friends engage in seamless banter from the rooftop. In a way I didn't sense this afternoon, I can now feel the mood breaking open, everyone's shields cracking apart. Even I am dropping subtle comments into the conversation, my mind and tongue more like melted butter and less like petrified wood.

Before I realize it's happening, I find myself engaged in a jocular back-and-forth with Kamden.

"How obvious was it during the open mic when I forgot the lyrics in the middle of the song?" he asks us. Since Kam is constantly being obnoxious to gain attention or acting goofy in order to make us laugh, it catches me by surprise that he still feels self-conscious about his minor mistake hours later.

"Not at all!" Shia assures him. "You just paused for a couple seconds and looked up at the ceiling pensively."

"That sounds really weird and awkward," he responds with self-deprecating sarcasm.

"It was fine," I console him. "I mean, it was you, so being weird is just normal anyway."

"Ouch, Nati, ouch," Kam responds, clutching his chest in mock-pain as a big grin cracks across his face. "That was brutal."

"Sorry, it's too fun to mess with you," I return, smiling. I know I'm blushing, but I assume it doesn't show in the blackness surrounding us. "But seriously, it actually looked like you did it on purpose, like you were having an emotional connection to the song."

"Wow, that's deep," he quips, though I'm not sure if the teasing is directed at me or himself. "So, in other words, you thought I was being weird, but on purpose."

"I didn't say that!" I giggle. He pushes my arm in jest, and it tingles where he touches me, because I'm unaccustomed to this kind of closeness with other humans, and everything about the moment feels special and new.