She left Boston with a heavy heart on a sunny afternoon. It was the last day of autumn and the bare trees no longer provided her with a cool shade. Her suitcases were packed, her biology books neatly positioned among her clothes. She was leaving for New York City to experience city life, to explore the possibilities of New York, to live on the 20th floor of an apartment building right in the middle of Manhattan. She wanted to taste life, the life of a dreamer.
She had emailed him two days before her departure, a short message that only indicated a date and time and a request for a quick coffee to say good-bye. She did not receive an email and refused to call him. She assumed that he was busy; finals were coming up and he was, after all, a professor at Harvard with lots on his hand. She had hoped to see him, to tell him that he too had made her life, that he too had taught her to be somebody, to be amazing and true to herself.
The university had never looked more glorious to her than it did now. She was in love with it, with its classrooms, with the friends she had made, with the professors she had met. She stood, watching the window to his classroom, desperately hoping that he would approach it, perhaps to feel the air or to refresh his room. It was 10 minutes past 2 and she could no longer waste any more time.
She drove off, making a quick stop at the nearest Starbucks. She needed one last taste of her hometown. She made a toast to herself and prayed that it wouldn’t rain in the city.