Like Real People Do [🗸]

04. art

After having recovered from my sleep deprivation-caused hangover — which was simply just an irritating but present throbbing in the back of my head — I'd slept in the day after Silvia's movie thing. 

It was an accomplished night. Drinking cabernet with other freshmen that I'd only really known for a few days? Accomplishment. (Although, my "hangover" really came from a lack of sleep given that I didn't drink for most of the night). People getting tipsy and laughing about nothing in particular? Accomplishment. Having my roommate appear to detest me slightly less, and being able to talk to Elliot Wu, albeit briefly? Accomplishment. 

All I wish I had that night was more time. More time to see Elliot, to speak to him, to know him. But, I suppose I have an entire year for that, provided I get another opportunity to meet him again.  I conjure up a wishing well, toss the wish deep into its depths. 

I'm wandering about campus, feet brushing against the ground. It's a mix of new and old, some gothic architecture, some wide glass windows. It's massive, the type of place that you'd need a car or at least a bike for to get to the other end.

I ponder about places like this often, so big that you could get lost in them. I am deafeningly, vividly aware of how small I am in comparison to this campus. My first lecture for today starts in an hour, so I have time. 

I wander about the campus, a lazy attempt at getting a feel for the place, which is something worth doing given that I was completely lost yesterday and honestly could've been left for dead had I not run into Elliot, who, miraculously knew what he was doing and where he was going.

Pushing open a door, my eyes drift about the performing arts hall. This is one of those  places that they didn't renovate as much. Sure, the floors are marble and look as though they were just installed last year, but the ceiling is a dome - this grand, all-consuming dome where light pours into. 

There's a door toward the edge of the room that reads AUDITORIUM. But in here, I see duffel bags resting on the floor, mirrors that stretch about eight feet, and a barre that some students have already begun practicing on.

There's a redheaded girl who extends her arms and legs, stretching with the grace of a dove. I am nauseated, because something so elegant shouldn't appear so simple.

A few other people talk, leaning against the walls or stretching on the ground. Others flip through pages of what I imagine are notes. The hall is brimming with life, like everywhere else of campus is there but this, this is the heart of the school.

I wander further in, and no one seems to notice me. My hands slide into the pockets of my jeans, then tug at the necklace resting on my bare skin, then fidget at my collar. My eyes flick over to another person.

He's in sweats and a white undershirt, hair falling all over his face. He does exercises on the barre, fluid movements as though he's teasing at a dance. Then he pushes away from the barre and spins, twirling around and around with ease, until he stops.