My phone buzzes gently at 6:45 a.m. beneath my pillow, giving me the choice to either mute or snooze. I silenced it almost immediately with my left hand, a move so swift and with much reflex.
Movement at this time of the day is a delicate art. You don't want to wake your dorm mates.
I lay still for a moment, eyes open, my mind humming with a familiar tune. Bob Marley's voice echoing softly in my head.
"Don't worry about a thing
'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright"
Singing, "Don't worry about a thing
'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright!"
Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun
Three little birds pitch by my doorstep
Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true
Saying, "This is my message to you-ou-ou"
Singing, "Don't worry about a thing
'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright"
Singing, "Don't worry about a thing (Don't worry)
'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright!"
The song wraps around my thoughts like a blanket, calming and familiar, reminding me at least for a few seconds that every little thing is supposed to be alright.
The room is still dim, washed in pale morning light sneaking through the narrow window. I push myself upright on the mattress, careful not to make a sound.
My room is one of the standard five-person flats common in second-year halls. Each girl has her own small bedroom, branching off a shared corridor. My door is always open probably because I don't own much of valuables, or maybe because I don't have much secrets.
The room is modest and tidy. Maybe because I'm neat, or maybe because I simply don't have much to clutter it. Just a single bed pushed against the wall, a desk beneath the window, a narrow wardrobe, and a chair.
My walls are bare, no fairy lights, no photographs, no postcards. The white paint remains untouched, much like my life feels sometimes: clean, quiet, and waiting to be written on.
I slide out from beneath my duvet and slip my feet into my slippers, preparing for my first class of Year Two.
It's my second year living in the same flat with the same four roommates, yet it still feels like I just arrived yesterday. My room is the one at the very end of the flat, certainly the one nobody wanted.
As I move down the corridor, I pass Samantha's door first. It's shut, but music pulses faintly through it: upbeat, confident, alive. Samantha is loud, expressive, effortlessly social. She makes friends in anywhere and anytime, laughs loudly during lectures, and lives as though she has never cared what anyone thinks. The complete opposite of me.
Next is Rose's domain: a chaos of colourful scarves, open sketchbooks, and tiny figurines she sculpts herself. You need no one telling you that she's an art student. Even the way she snores and murmurs in her sleep is a work of art.
Then there's Celine's room. Protein shakers line her shelf like disciplined soldiers, marathon medals hanging neatly from hooks. Her body is sculpted like an athlete's, no surprise, considering how her father raised her. She's already won more trophies than I can count, and if you ask me, her future is already way ahead of her.
Opposite Celine's room is Dearest's.
Dearest; the sonorous one. The observer. The one who speaks only when necessary, but sing when necessary and when it does not. Sometimes I wonder if she sees me the way I see everyone else: clearly, carefully, without judgment.
I pause for a brief moment in the corridor, surrounded by closed doors and lives moving at different speeds. Five girls, one flat, five entirely different worlds.
And somewhere between the soft hum of morning, the echo of Bob Marley's song, and the quiet rhythm of my own footsteps, I realise this year(2.0.2.6),this chapter of my life,feels like it's waiting to begin.
I take a breath, tighten my grip on my bag, and step forward.
Whatever this year holds, it's already awake and so am I.