First year is over, and next year, we’ll be back—but in a different room, with different people.
Roommates?
At first, they were just that—roommates. Strangers who happened to be assigned the same space, people whose names I barely knew at the beginning. We were just individuals thrown together by chance, learning to coexist under the same roof. Some days, it felt like an obligation, like an arrangement we had to adjust to. But somewhere along the way, the definition of “roommates” changed.
They weren’t just people I shared a room with anymore. They became friends. And then, they became something even more—family.
The thought of leaving didn’t seem like a big deal at first. After all, it was just a room. Just four walls, a couple of beds, a few desks, and a shared space that wasn’t even meant to be permanent. We knew from the start that it was temporary. One year, and then we would move on. One year, and then we would pack up, say goodbye, and settle into a new room with new faces.
And yet, as I sit here now, staring at the half-packed bags and the once-cluttered shelves that now look empty and unfamiliar, I realize that it’s not the room I’m struggling to say goodbye to—it’s THEM!
These walls, this space—it became something more than just a place to stay. Whenever I felt homesick, it was these walls that comforted me, that made me feel like I wasn’t too far away from home. Maybe that’s why I never felt the need to call home as much as I thought I would. Because I had already found one here.
Now that it’s time to leave, there’s happiness, yes. The excitement of going back home, of reuniting with family, of starting a new chapter. But there’s also something else—something heavier, something that makes my heart ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Because leaving doesn’t just mean packing my bags and walking out the door. It means leaving behind a part of my life that I’ll never get back.
It was just one year. Just twelve months. Yet, the attachment runs so deep that now all I want is “just two more minutes” in this room. Just a little more time before saying goodbye.
Was it these four walls, or was it the four people in this room who became home?
So much laughter, so many jokes that never got old. There were times we laughed so hard that we forgot about assignments, forgot about stress, forgot about everything except how good it felt to be here, together. There were fights too, but never the kind that made me wish I was somewhere else.
Never once did I feel lonely enough to cry for home.
I never told my parents I wanted to come home early. I never told my sister I missed her. Not because I didn’t—but because I had found a family here too. A family that understood me in a way only people who share the same space, the same late-night rants, the same unspoken comforts, could.
And now, with everything packed, staring at the empty closet and the bare desk, something feels incomplete. The room looks unfamiliar again, like it’s already waiting for the next set of strangers to move in and make it their own.
But I won’t be here.
The people I spent this year with won’t be here either.
This room, which once felt so full of life, so loud with our endless conversations, so warm with our presence, will no longer be ours.
And that is what hurts the most.
Writer : Manya Arora
Grade : 1st Year Psychology Undergrad (Year 2025)
Place : Mumbai, India
