Letters to… Nostalgia

Dear Nostalgia,

I remember:

  • the giddy feeling of being alone in my Residium room with new bedsheets and bare walls
  • the way the light struck the cathedral so that the brick became rosy and warm
  • champagne, in flutes and water glasses and plastic cups and mugs
  • seeing the old library for the first time, falling for its wooden shelves and musty smell
  • the teachers that sparkled, the teachers that burned me out
  • early trains into Paris, groggy but eager
  • late trains back from Paris, footsore but content
  • the tired collapse onto a small bed after a long day, a friend, a cup of tea, fairy lights
  • pasta sticking to the bottom of the pot, burning
  • running through the streets, drunk and stupid, in love with being drunk and stupid
  • the feel of hardwood floors under my bare feet as I moved my things in to a new apartment on the other side of town
  • breakfasts where baguettes were broken and eggs were cooked on a hob
  • parties where empty bottles were broken and glass danced all over the kitchen floor, glittering
  • cups of milky tea cradled in hands I have held
  • red-eye flights and sleeping on different shoulders in different airports
  • heels tottering over cobblestones
  • the buzz of a night out, the droop of the morning after
  • sore eyes reading readings that must be read
  • countless cups of coffee at Oma, unwinding, unpinning myself from myself
  • the courtyard in the sun
  • the courtyard in the shade
  • the courtyard in the rain
  • the courtyard
  • Sciences Po, for all its beauty, for all its flaws, for letting me belong for a little while



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