It was midnight when I went into the bathroom. It was nearly 2 a.m. when I left.
I’m an only child. I’ve never shared a building, a room or a bathroom with people my age.
Still with heavy limbs, after a long couple days of moving in, reporting, socializing and more socializing, I rummaged for my toiletries and agonized over leaving my dorm room. But hygiene was a priority, so with a very flattering frog-towel headband meant to keep my hair out of the way when washing my face, I made the 10-foot walk to the communal bathroom.
I smiled (slightly) at the girl who was there. We had chatted a bit earlier in the Great Room but only in a group setting. While we brushed our teeth, we began a conversation about our first Medill experiences that transitioned into high school stories.
Nearly two hours later, by now squatting uncomfortably on the bathroom floor with our phones facedown to ignore the time, we anguished over early class without making a move to leave.
Talking with her was the first of many deep conversations at Medill. I now felt eager to be a cherub. Living with people meant knowing them beyond their polished selves. Empathy is easy to find when you do everything together.
She and I met in the bathroom to debrief many more times.
Nearly every night, I have attempted to go to bed early, only to find someone else to talk to in the halls or a common space.
I now stay downstairs until a minute before curfew, initiate early-morning roommate conversations and trespass in fellow cherubs’ rooms to gossip. The concept of constantly being surrounded by others was nerve-wracking, but it gave me close friends, and I happily sacrifice my sleep just to share another moment with them.
