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Over quarantine, I convinced myself I was an introvert. I could think of nothing more appealing than spending the entire day in bed. I had no energy with which to entertain friends, my motivation to take on a project or class as fleeting as a London summer.
A few weeks ago, I saw one of my closest friends for the first time in three years. He was taller—or my memory deceived me—but he laughed the same way (with all of his teeth out) and we joked about the same people and things. Having lived in London for high school, neither of us had any use for a car, but moving back to the States changed me mainly by forcing me to get my drivers’ license years after my American friends’ younger siblings got theirs. We had a great night in Princeton, and when I dropped him off at what might’ve been the world’s shadiest AirBnB. he remarked that he hoped it wouldn’t be another three years before we saw each other again. How much had changed in those three years—our career ambitions, our fears and hopes, and, ostensibly, our heights—but, really, so much had stayed the same, and the thought of waiting another three years for a few more hours together at dinner terrified both of us. We promised to call each other more often, as all old friends do, even though we knew we probably wouldn't, as all old friends do. But we also understood that we didn’t need to talk often to stay friends.
When I turned twenty, I cried twice, first because I was scared of the size of the number, and second, because my brother’s friend died of an overdose that night. Every time another year is added on to my age, I feel more disconnected from myself. I still don’t understand how I could already be fourteen, let alone seventeen, let alone twenty.
To the casual observer, the steady stream of students entering and exiting the Brodhead Center wouldn’t appear to be a shocking departure from the normal campus dining scene. But stepping inside West Campus’ main dining hall reveals the strange new world of eating at Duke.
