The echo of footsteps on polished linoleum bounced down the college's main corridor. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering ever so slightly as Mia lingered by the glass-paneled entrance. Through the lobby's tall windows, sunlight filtered in, catching motes of dust mid-air like suspended time.
Sarah stood just past the double doors of the main auditorium, a stack of papers cradled awkwardly in her arms. Her fingers tightened around the welcome packet, the slick sheen of course catalogs and a folded campus map pressing against her chest.
Mia remained outside, her figure half-shaded by the arch of the lobby's outer column. She watched in stillness, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. The hum of orientation morning was palpable—chatter from clustered students, the distant ring of a bicycle bell, a student ambassador calling out names from a clipboard.
Inside, Sarah hovered near the sign-in desk. Her hair had come slightly undone in the breeze; she tucked a strand behind her ear absently, eyes scanning the room. Rows of auditorium chairs fanned out in steep tiers, and at the base of it all, a projection screen displayed a rotating slideshow of student life: study groups, café gatherings, hands raised in lecture halls.
Mia's breath caught.
She remembered—years ago, an identical moment. A different lobby, different names, but the same quiet awe in the air. She hadn't been chosen then. But Sarah had been now.
Sarah flipped open the top page of her packet. Bolded headings stood out in capital letters: ORIENTATION SCHEDULE, PLACEMENT EXAMS, ACADEMIC ADVISING. Her eyes danced over the grid of time slots and seminar names—each line representing a path she didn't yet know how to walk.
From the lobby, Mia's heart fluttered. She wished she could whisper encouragement. Instead, she watched.
Sarah's hand hovered above the sign-in sheet.
A girl behind her tapped her shoulder and motioned for a pen. Sarah blinked, nodded, passed it along. But still didn't write her own name.
She glanced around. Laughter floated from a group gathered near the water fountain. Someone unwrapped a granola bar. Faculty milled about near the back exit, clipped IDs dangling from lanyards.
Mia's gaze remained fixed.
Was it too much? Had she pushed too soon?
Sarah turned her face slightly and caught her own reflection in a darkened glass door. For a moment, she just stared. Then, she slowly adjusted the strap on her bag, took a breath, and stepped closer to the table.
Mia's fingers twitched at her side.
Sarah picked up the pen.
Held it.
Paused again.
Mia recalled the late nights spent collecting brochures, the careful registration forms filled out under fluorescent desk light. She'd chosen this day deliberately—far enough into the term to feel real, but early enough to offer choices. This was Sarah's threshold. All Mia could do now was watch her decide whether to cross it.
The woman behind the desk cleared her throat gently. "You can sign here if you're ready, hon."
Sarah nodded, eyes still on the sheet. Her hand moved. Stopped. Then, with a soft exhale, she signed.
The pen returned to the table with a quiet click.
Mia didn't breathe.
The student ambassador smiled and handed Sarah a lanyard and schedule. "Welcome, Sarah. You'll be in Group C—just head inside and grab a seat toward the middle. We'll get started in a few minutes."
Sarah murmured a thank you and stepped forward. As she passed through the auditorium doors, her silhouette briefly cast against the sunlight, Mia's vision blurred.
Not from tears.
But from the sharpness of pride.
She stepped back from the column and let herself blend into the background.
The moment wasn't hers.
It never had to be.
It only had to belong to Sarah.
—
Inside, Sarah scanned the room again. There were still plenty of empty seats, but most students had already clustered into pairs, filling in the lower and upper sections. Her eyes tracked the projector screen, now displaying a countdown: "Orientation begins in 07:14."
She chose a row near the middle, setting her bag down with a soft thud and sliding into the third seat in. The paper packet rustled in her lap as she turned the cover page. Her fingers ran along the edge of the course catalog, pausing at the electives list.
Creative Writing. Environmental Science. Intro to Psychology.
A dozen windows into possible versions of herself.
Her thumb hovered over one name, then shifted to another. Each title felt like both invitation and question.
She looked up.
The walls around her bore posters of past graduates, group photos of study abroad trips, framed photos of student achievements. She hadn't imagined herself in those images before. Now she wondered if one day she might.
She folded her arms across the packet and leaned forward slightly. Her name badge hung loosely around her neck. She touched it absently. It felt strange, official.
But it also felt like a beginning.
Behind her, the auditorium doors clicked softly as another group entered. Sarah didn't turn. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead.
This time, she didn't need to look back.
A voice crackled over the sound system, testing the microphone. Sarah startled slightly, but then settled. The stage at the front of the auditorium lit slowly, one soft spotlight at a time, illuminating the podium and the long table behind it.
She could feel her pulse in her fingertips.
She wasn't ready for everything. But maybe she didn't need to be.
Her fingers smoothed a wrinkle in the orientation booklet.
She was here.
And that, today, was enough.
She turned a page, finding a chart of suggested academic tracks. Some were more intensive, others more exploratory. She circled one labeled "Open Studies."
A quiet declaration.
The screen at the front flickered again. A welcome message scrolled across it:
"Every path starts with a single name on a page."
Sarah smiled faintly, glancing down at her own name tag once more.
This was hers.
She looked around again, and this time, she noticed the smaller things: the girl in front of her tapping her foot rhythmically, a pair of boys whispering over a shared tablet, the faint smell of old carpet and fresh paper. It was all real. Tangible.
She bent over her packet once more, now not just reading, but annotating, underlining courses, circling dates, writing question marks next to unfamiliar terms.
No one was watching.
But if they were, they would've seen something unmistakable:
Not hesitation.
But beginning.