Four years ago, what dominated my mind most was that I was running out of time. The end of my time at University loomed large in front of me. I didn’t have a job to go to, my final year project was dead in the water and my relationship was painfully long-distance, but those weren’t the most weighty issues. I was troubled far more by the fact that three months from then, I’d be leaving the city that defined my transition from childhood to adulthood, losing that constant contact with friends that defines University life.
And come June, the inevitable happened, and off we all went.
There’s a lot I don’t miss about that time — the pressure of coursework and exams, the phone calls every night until my head felt ready to burst, the having very little money — but there’s one thing I really, really do.
I miss the drama.
At the time, I was pretty conflicted about the giant morass of drama that got dropped on us in what was my third year — I hated it, but it was almost enjoyable in a weird ironic sort of way. And now I miss it.
I miss the burning feeling and the anguish of developing crushes on completely inappropriate people. I miss all the knowledge of other people’s lives that comes from being so regularly in contact with them. I miss trying to fix other people’s bad situations, I miss succeeding, and I miss failing. I miss having breakfast at KFC, though only two people know why. I miss baring the contents of our hearts until deep into the night. I miss the secrets and the gossip. I miss friends becoming lovers, and I miss friends becoming enemies. I miss finding the right things to say to the right people, and I miss failing at that too. I miss falling in love for the first time.
None of that is coming back, and perhaps I should be glad of that. After all, I just confessed to hating it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all (or was it Absinthe?), so it’s probably for the best that it’s all safely confined to the past. But once every so often, just like now, I’ll reminisce about those times long ago.