I miss my time in Guelph and it is a steady ache under my chest that I can’t do anything about.
I want the townhouse back. I want my roommates, South Res, and move in day with my best friend. I want English seminars and Creative Writing and the summer I spent landscaping nearby.
People ask me about university and I tell them about homecoming and frosh, the girls I lived with and will always love and what it’s like to live in Guelph. That was all several years ago now, but when I think of university, I think of those first two years.
I want to go back to my third year of school and my first year in Vancouver. I want my British partner in crime back, I want to walk to classes in thick fog, and I want my friend to curl my hair every single Friday night. I want Wednesday’s back at the Highland, the night on the rooftop, and the only house party we ever threw.
Those first two years still feel like they should have been longer because several months before I left I never expected I was going to leave. And these past two years felt as though I jumped from first year to final year because it was my first year there but I was already more than halfway done. And I guess this is just the way it works when you decide to transfer university’s.
I tell people, and mostly myself, that I got the best of both worlds.
I got to live here and there – I got to go to school here and there. I got to have both.
I feel like I didn’t get both.
I feel like I got half of each.
And it wasn’t enough.