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The Season of Us

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The Season of Us

A New Beginning

The acceptance letter had sat on my desk for three weeks.

Not because I didn’t believe it was real.

Because I was afraid of what it meant.

I had read the words so many times that I could probably recite them from memory.

Congratulations, Olivia Bennet.

*We are pleased* to inform you that you have been accepted into Westbridge University.

A university.

A new city.

A new life.

The kind of opportunity people spent years dreaming about.

And yet, as I stared at the suitcase sitting open on my bedroom floor, all I felt was a strange heaviness in my chest.

Leaving was supposed to feel exciting.

It was supposed to feel like freedom.

But no one ever tells you that starting over means leaving behind the little things you never realized you depended on.

The sound of your mother humming while she cooked.

Your father yelling from the living room whenever his favorite team played.

The familiar creak of the hallway floorboards at night.

Home.

I looked around my room one last time.

The walls were covered with pieces of who I used to be. Old photographs. Half-finished notebooks. Awards I barely remembered receiving. A shelf filled with books I had read so many times the pages were worn.

This room had held every version of me.

The girl who dreamed about leaving.

The girl who was afraid to.

And now, somehow, she was both.

“Liv?”

I turned toward the doorway.

My mother stood there, leaning against the frame with a small smile.

“You packed everything?”

I looked back at my suitcase.

“Almost.”

She walked inside, picking up a folded sweater from my bed before placing it carefully inside.

“You know you can always come home.”

Those words should have comforted me.

Instead, they made my throat tighten.

“I know.”

She sat beside me.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

My mother had always been good at understanding my silence. She didn’t need me to explain every thought running through my head.

“You’re nervous,” she said softly.

I gave a small laugh.

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Yes.”

She smiled.

“You’re my daughter. I know when you’re pretending you’re okay.”

I looked down at my hands.

“I just feel like everything is changing.”

“It is.”

Her answer surprised me.

She didn’t tell me not to worry.

She didn’t pretend everything would stay the same.

Instead, she reached over and squeezed my hand.

“But changing doesn’t always mean losing something.”

I looked at her.

“Sometimes it means finding something you didn’t know you needed.”

⸻

By the time we loaded the car, my father had checked the trunk three times.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because that was just who he was.

“If you need anything, you call me,” he said as he closed the trunk.

“I know, Dad.”

“No, I’m serious.”

I smiled.

“I know.”

“And don’t skip meals.”

“Dad.”

“I’m just saying.”

My mother laughed from beside him.

“She’s going to college, not disappearing into the wilderness.”

My father crossed his arms.

“You haven’t seen some of the food they serve at colleges.”

I laughed, and for a moment, everything felt normal.

But then I looked at the house.

Really looked at it.

And suddenly leaving felt real.

This was the last morning I would wake up here.

The last time I would walk through this front door as a resident instead of a visitor.

I hugged my mother first.

She held onto me longer than usual.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

My eyes burned slightly.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Then my father pulled me into a hug.

He wasn’t someone who showed emotion easily.

But his hand rested on the back of my head like it had when I was younger.

“Make mistakes,” he said quietly.

I pulled back slightly.

“What?”

“You’re going to. Everyone does.”

He smiled.

“But make sure they’re your mistakes. Not someone else’s idea of who you should be.”

I swallowed.

“Okay.”

⸻

The drive to Westbridge University felt both too short and too long.

The closer we got, the more my stomach twisted.

The campus was bigger than I imagined.

Old brick buildings covered in ivy. Students walking across the courtyard carrying books and coffee. Groups of friends laughing like they had already known each other forever.

Everyone looked like they belonged.

I wondered if I would.

My father parked near my dorm building.

“Well,” he said.

That one word carried a lot.

The goodbye.

The pride.

The worry.

I grabbed my bag.

“Don’t make this weird.”

My mother laughed.

“You’re the one leaving. We’re allowed to be emotional.”