Silence has always been my medium. I've shaped it, I've lived in it, and I understand it better than most people understand their own words. Concordia is where I want to see what else I can make. The campus moves around me in a restless tide. Students dragging suitcases. Someone laughing too loudly. A cluster of voices rising and falling like waves. I do not need to enter—I take it all in without flinching. Noise has never frightened me. It is only another landscape to read.
My mother walks beside me, her steps too quick, her breath too shallow. She is trying to be brave for me, but her worry clings to her like humidity. She keeps touching the strap of my bag, smoothing it, adjusting it, as if she could anchor me with her hands. “Are you sure you have everything, ma cocotte?” she asked. “I know you checked, but I keep thinking of things you might need. Tell me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
I stop walking long enough to catch her fingers. I hold them until she looks at me. I want her to see that I am steady, even if my stomach is tight with the weight of everything I cannot predict. Even if part of me wonders whether I will be understood here, or whether I will spend the year translating myself for people who do not know how to listen. She gives me a small smile. It trembles at the edges. I return one that is firmer, because one of us needs to be sure.
The residence hall rises ahead of us, all glass and brick and possibility. Students stream in and out with plants and posters and pieces of their old lives. I roll my suitcase behind me, the wheels humming over the pavement. My mother walks a step behind now. She is letting me lead, even though I can feel how much effort it costs her. Inside, the air smells of fresh paint and something sharp and clean. My room is small but bright, sunlight spilling onto the bare mattress and the empty desk. A blank space. A beginning. I stand in the doorway for a moment, letting the quiet settle around me. It is not the quiet of home. It is thinner, unfamiliar, but it holds its own promise. We unpack together. My clothes find drawers, my sketchbooks find shelves. My tablet charger clicks into the outlet beside the desk. Each object makes the room feel a little more like something I can inhabit. When I place the framed photograph of the oak tree on the desk, something inside me loosens. That tree has always been my anchor. Seeing it here feels like planting a small piece of myself in new soil.
My mother touches my shoulder. I do not turn. I can feel everything she is not saying. Pride. Fear. Love. The ache of letting go. She exhales softly, “You are ready. I know you are. I just need a moment to catch up.”
I breathe through the tightness in my chest. I wanted this—I chose this. Wanting something does not make it easy. She pulls me into a hug. Her heartbeat presses against my cheek, steady and familiar. I hold on a moment longer than usual.
When she steps back, her eyes shine, but she smiles anyway. “Text me when you are settled, okay? Not because I doubt you. Just because I want to breathe easier.”
I nod.
Then she is gone. Her footsteps fade down the hall. The door clicks shut. The room expands around me, too large for a moment, too quiet. I sit on the bed and breathe until the stillness softens. I let myself feel the fear. Then I let it settle. I came here to grow.
The door swings open. A girl stumbles in backward, dragging in a suitcase that looks like it has eaten several smaller ones. Scarves spill from her neck in a riot of colour. Her curls are wild, her glasses crooked, her smile bright enough to warm the room. “Oh my gosh, sorry, hi. I am Chloe. I swear I’m not usually this chaotic. I just…” She trips over the threshold, catches herself, and laughs. “Okay, maybe I am usually this chaotic.” Her energy rushes in like sunlight through an open window. I blink, startled but not displeased. She is loud in a way that feels alive. She brushes curls away from her face. “You’re Mila, right? I checked the roommate list. I hope that isn’t creepy. I just like to know who I’m living with so I don’t accidentally traumatize them with my… everything.”
I lift my tablet and type: Hi. Yes. I am Mila.
The text-to-speech fills the room. I watch her face carefully. Most people react with discomfort or pity. I brace myself for it.
Chloe’s eyes widen, but not with pity. With curiosity, with something open and bright. “That is so cool,” she says. “Not cool that you need it, but cool how you use it. I don’t know sign language, but I want to learn. Or whatever you use. I want to get it right.” A small warmth rises in my chest. I am not used to people meeting my silence without flinching.
I type: I use gestures and text. My own mix.
Chloe lights up. “Your own dialect. That is incredible. Like visual poetry.”
I feel something shift inside me. A quiet spark. A sense of being seen without being examined.
Chloe drops her suitcase and spins around slowly, taking in the room. “Okay, so. I brought too many plants. And too many clothes. And probably too many mugs. But I promise I am not messy. I am just enthusiastically organized.”
I raise an eyebrow.
She laughs. “Fine. I am messy. But friendly messy.”
As she unpacks, she talks about her hometown, her major, her obsession with sustainable fashion. Her words make the room feel less empty. I find myself relaxing without meaning to. I don’t expect comfort to arrive so quickly.
When she notices the photograph of the oak tree, she pauses. “Oh. That is beautiful. Where is it from?”
I walk to the desk and trace the shape of the tree in the air, the curve of the trunk, the twist of the branches, the cool morning light. Then I place a hand over my heart. Home.
Chloe watches quietly. Her breathing softens.“It is a quiet place,” she says. “I can feel that.”
Something in me eases. She understands more than I expected.
“I am really glad you’re my roommate, Mila.”
I smile back, small but real, and think: good. I want someone beside me who does not flinch at my silence.
Orientation morning arrived with a pale, early light that makes everything look softer than it feels. I wake slowly, trying to steady myself before the day begins. My stomach is tight. I keep thinking about how many new people I’ll have to face, how many moments where I’ll have to decide whether to speak with my tablet or stay quiet. I want to feel excited, but mostly I feel like I’m bracing for impact.
Chloe is already awake, sitting cross‑legged on her bed with a mug of tea and a notebook full of colour‑coded scribbles. She looks calm in the way only someone who talks a lot can look calm.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she says. “Ready to meet the entire population of Concordia in one chaotic burst?”
I give her a flat look. She laughs, like she already understands that’s my version of a groan. We walk across the quad together. The grass is damp, and the air feels cool against my face. Students cluster in groups, talking loudly, moving quickly. I feel small in the middle of all that noise. Not invisible. Just exposed. I keep wondering who will stare first, who will talk over me, who will pretend not to notice the tablet. I hate that I’m already preparing for it.
Chloe talks enough for both of us. “Apparently, there’s a welcome speech, then a campus tour, then a mixer thing where we’re supposed to connect with our academic community. Which sounds like speed dating but for majors.” I raise an eyebrow. She grins. “Exactly. Terrifying.”
The auditorium smells faintly of old carpet. I choose a seat near the aisle so I can leave if the noise becomes too much. The room feels too full. Too loud. My shoulders tighten the longer I sit there. I keep checking the exits without meaning to. I don’t want to start my first day by running from a room. The dean steps onto the stage and begins the welcome speech. His voice echoes through the speakers. I try to listen, but my mind drifts. Everyone around me seems to belong to someone. Friends leaning close, whispering, laughing. I feel the distance between me and all of them. Not because I’m alone, but because I don’t know yet if anyone here will understand me the way I need to be understood.
After the speech, we spill out into the sunlight. Orientation leaders wave signs and shout instructions. Chloe grabs my wrist. “Come on. Group C. Purple sign.”
Our group gathered near the library steps. Étienne, our leader, introduces himself with a wide grin. “If you get lost, yell. If you’re too shy to yell, wave your arms. If you’re too shy to wave your arms, just walk toward the nearest purple shirt.”
Chloe snorts. I smile.
As we walk, Étienne points out buildings. The library. The student centre. The art studios. The cafeteria. Students ask questions. Some drift to the back. Some surge forward. I stay in the middle, where I can observe without being observed too closely. The rhythm of the group helped. It gave me something to follow.
At one point, Étienne slows beside me. “Are you doing okay?” he asks.
I nod.
He notices my tablet. “If you ever need anything during the tour, just tap me. I’m here to help.”
His tone matters. It isn’t pity. It isn’t awkward. It’s simple and respectful. I feel myself relax a little. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself until now.
The tour ends at the student center, where tables are set up for the academic mixer. Chloe goes straight to the Environmental Science booth. I wander toward Visual Arts.
A girl with a shaven head and paint‑splattered overalls greets me. “Hey. Are you thinking of majoring in VA?”
I nod.
“I’m Tessa. Second year. If you ever need help finding supplies or want to know which profs give the least soul‑crushing critiques, I’m your girl.”
I type: I’m Mila. First year.
She reads it, then looks at me. Not on the tablet. At me. “Welcome, Mila. You’re gonna fit right in.”
I didn’t know what to say. People don’t usually say things like that to me. Not without hesitation. Hearing it so easily makes something warm settle in my chest. I want to believe her.
Chloe finds me again, arms full of pamphlets. “I talk to twelve people and learned nothing,” she says. “But I got free pens.”
I hold up a single pamphlet. She laughs. “Of course you were efficient.”
We walk back to the dorm together. The campus buzzes with possibility. I feel tired, but not in a bad way. More like I’ve used muscles I’m not used to using.
Back in the room, Chloe flops onto her bed. “We should take a class together.”
I blink at her.“Yes,” she said. “A real class. Something fun. Something we can suffer through together.”
I type: You want to suffer with me?
She grins. “Absolutely. That’s friendship.” She opened her laptop and scrolled through the course list. “Microeconomics… no. Canadian Politics… no. Calculus… never.”
I type: Art elective?
She perks up. “Yes. Something creative.”She scrolled again. “Introduction to Photography.”
I tilt my head. Photography has always made sense to me. It’s quiet. Observant. Patient. Chloe reads the description. “Visual storytelling. That’s you.”
I type: I like this one.
She beams. “Me too. And the professor brings snacks.”
I raise my eyebrows. She laughs. We register together. I feel a small flutter of excitement. I’m not used to someone wanting to share things with me. Not out of obligation, but because they actually want to. It scares me a little. But it also feels good.
Chloe stretches out on her bed. “We’re officially classmates. Roommates. Partners in academic crime.”
I type: Partners in snacks.
She laughs again. I feel something shift inside me. Small, but real. Like maybe this place won’t swallow me whole. Like maybe I can build something here. Slowly. In my own way.
The Art History lecture hall is colder than I expected. The kind of cold that makes me pull my sleeves down and tuck my hands into them. Students come in groups, talking loudly, dropping backpacks, claiming seats like they already belong here. I sit in the middle row, not too close, not too far. A place where I can see without feeling watched. Chloe left for her Environmental Science class with a cheerful wave. The silence she left behind feels heavier than I wanted it to. I’m not afraid of being alone, but being alone in a room full of strangers always makes my chest feel tight. I keep my eyes on my notebook so I won’t look like I’m waiting for someone. I listen to the room instead. The scrape of chairs. The rustle of jackets. The nervous laughter. Everyone seems to know how to exist here. I’m still figuring out where to put my hands.
Then Dr. Aris walks in. Small, sharp‑eyed, confident in a way that makes the room shift around her. She dims the lights and puts up a Renaissance portrait. The sudden quiet helps. Art always helps. It gives me something to focus on that isn’t people.
“Tell me,” she says, “What role does negative space play in this composition?”
Hands shoot up immediately. People answer quickly, like they’re trying to prove they belong here. I listen, but none of the answers touch what I see. I feel the familiar pull in my chest, the one that means I have something to say but am not sure if it’s worth the attention it will bring. Speaking up always feels like stepping onto a stage I didn’t ask for. My hand goes up anyway.
“Yes? Mila?” she says, noticing me right away.
A few heads turn. My fingers move across the tablet. I feel the pressure of eyes on me, waiting. The voice speaks: “Negative space isn’t empty. It’s a holding place. It’s where the subject’s influence ends and the world begins. It’s a silent conversation between the painted and the unpainted.”
The room goes still. Not tense. Just quiet in a way that makes me feel exposed.
Dr. Aris’s expression softens. “A silent conversation,” she repeats. “Beautifully put.”
Something loosens in my chest. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’ve been holding myself until this moment. I’m not proud. I’m relieved. Relieved that I haven’t misread the painting. Relieved that I haven’t embarrassed myself. Relieved that someone understands what I mean. When class ends, I wait for the crowd to thin before standing. I don’t like being caught in the middle of people packing up. Too many bodies. Too many chances for someone to bump into me or talk over me.
That’s when Marcus walks up. He looks unsure of himself, which makes me feel less unsure of myself. “I liked what you said,” he says. “About negative space.”
I’m not used to people approaching me. I type a simple thank you. He smiles like it means more than that. When he asks if I like art history, I type that I like the quiet parts of it. He laughs softly, and something in me eases. He isn’t uncomfortable with my silence. He isn’t trying to fill it. He’s just talking to me. That matters more than I want to admit.
The student lounge on the second floor of the library is busy in a way that feels familiar. Not loud enough to overwhelm me, but full enough that I have to stay aware of myself. Soft chatter. The hum of vending machines. The occasional thud of someone dropping a textbook. It was the kind of noise that does not demand anything from me, which makes it easier to breathe.
Chloe and I claim a table near the window. She spreads out her notes as if she were preparing for a battle she fully expects to win. I set my tablet beside my binder and take a moment to settle. Studying with her always makes the room feel less sharp. She fills the space without crowding me. I’ve just opened my notes when I hear someone call my name.
Marcus jogs over with two guys behind him. He looks hopeful in a way that makes my stomach tighten. I’m not used to people seeking me out. Not like this. He stops at our table. “Do you mind if we join you? We’re all in the same class, and I told them you take really good notes.”
I feel a quick rush of nerves. More people mean more chances to be talked over. More chances to disappear. Chloe looks at me, waiting for my signal. I appreciate that she never assumes for me. I nod. They pull up chairs. Introductions happen quickly. Tyler with the backwards cap. Eli with the headphones around his neck. Both loud in different ways. Both friendly in ways that make me unsure if I should relax or brace myself. At first, everything goes as I expect. Tyler leans over my binder and comments on the color coding. Eli talks about how he barely has time to sleep. They talk over each other. They talk over me. I type answers they do not hear. I feel myself shrinking back without meaning to. My chest tightens the way it always does when I realize I’m becoming invisible in a conversation I’m part of.
Marcus tries to redirect them. “Hey, Mila had a good point in class last week.”
Tyler waves a hand. “Right, right. Negative space. Cool stuff.”
The dismissal stings more than I want it to. Not because he means harm, but because I know this pattern. People like the idea of including me until they have to slow down long enough to actually do it. I type something about the chapter we’re supposed to review, but they’re already talking again. The frustration rises quickly. Hot. Tight. Familiar. I hate that I can feel myself folding inward.
Chloe notices before anyone else. Her eyes narrow. Her voice cut through the noise. “Guys. Mila is trying to answer you.”
Everything stops. Tyler freezes. Eli blinks. Marcus looks mortified. The sudden attention makes my face warm, but the relief is stronger. I don’t want her to fight my battles, but I also don’t want to disappear.
I lift a hand to stop Marcus from apologizing for them. I type slowly, so I won’t shake. It is okay. Just let me finish before you talk. That is all.
Saying it out loud through the tablet makes my stomach twist. I am not used to asking for space. I am used to working around people instead of asking them to meet me halfway.
Tyler’s face goes red.“Yeah. Of course. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”
Eli nods quickly. “ We’re just loud. We’ll chill.”
Marcus gives me a look that is not pity and not guilt. Just grateful that I spoke for myself. After that, everything shifts. They wait for my tablet to finish speaking. They ask follow-up questions. They actually listen. The difference is small but real. I feel myself sit up straighter without meaning to.
At one point, Tyler even says, “Hold on. Let Mila answer first.”
Chloe smirks like she won a secret bet. By the time we finish the study session, the tension in my chest has eased. Eli has drawn a terrible doodle of our professor. Tyler has spilled half his coffee but cleaned it up without being asked. Marcus has relaxed enough to stop fidgeting with his pen.
As we pack up, Marcus lingers. “You handled that really well,” he says quietly. “ I’m sorry they talked over you at first.”
I type, It happens. They learned.
He smiles. Not a big smile. A small one that felt honest. “Yeah. They did.”
Chloe loops her arm through mine as we head toward the elevators.“You were a badass,” she whispers.
I roll my eyes, but a small part of me believes her.
The hallway outside the photography studio is already crowded when Chloe and I arrive. Students are lined up for the printers, shifting from foot to foot, tapping their cards against the reader, complaining when nothing happens. The noise is steady and low, but my body still reacts to it. My shoulders tighten. My breath shortens. I remind myself that this is normal. First weeks are always like this. Chloe stands close enough that I can feel her presence without her touching me. That helps. She always makes chaotic spaces feel less unpredictable. When it’s finally my turn, I plug in my USB stick and select my photo. Nothing happens. I try again. Still nothing.
A guy behind us lets out a loud sigh. The kind meant to make sure everyone hears it. “Seriously? Can you hurry? Some of us have deadlines.”
My stomach drops. Heat rises in my face. I hate moments like this. I hate how quickly people assume I’m the problem. I hate how fast embarrassment can take over my whole body. Before I can react,
Chloe turns around. “ It’s the printer, not her.”
He rolls his eyes.“Whatever.”
The word hits harder than it should have. I ignore him and try again. The printer whirs, clicks, then flashes an error message. Paper jam. Of course. I crouch down and open the tray. The paper is stuck deep inside. I tug gently, but it does not move.
Chloe kneels beside me.“Want me to get someone?”
I shake my head. I type on my tablet. I can fix it.
She nods and moves aside. I reach in again, slower this time. My fingers brush the edge of the paper. I press the release tab and ease it out. The printer beeps. The error clears. My photo begins to print.
Chloe grins.“You are a genius.”
The guy behind us mutters a quiet thank you. I nod without looking at him. I do not want to give him more space in my mind than he deserves. I just want the moment to be over.
We collect our prints and walk into class. The studio smells like ink and old wood. The kind of smell that makes me feel grounded. Chloe bumps her shoulder lightly against mine. “People underestimate you,” she says.
I type, That is their problem.
She laughs. I mean it. But a small part of me wishes people would not underestimate me so easily in the first place. Class begins with a review of our first assignment. Students pin their photos to the wall. Some talk too much about their work. Some said nothing at all. I watch the way people stand beside their images. The way they wait for reactions. Everyone wants to be seen. I understand that more than I like to admit.
When it is my turn, I pin my photo to the board. A quiet shot of morning light on the dorm window. Simple. Still. Mine. The professor studies it for a long moment. My stomach tightens. Waiting for feedback always feels like holding my breath.
“This is thoughtful,” he says. “You pay attention to the small shifts in light. That is a skill many students take years to learn.”
Relief washes through me so quickly that it makes my hands shake. I nod once. I do not need more than that. I just need to know I did not misread the assignment. I need to know I belong in the room.
Later that week, in Art History, we are assigned group work. Marcus waves me over before I can choose a seat. Tyler and Eli are already there. I feel a flicker of nerves, but join them. This time, they do not interrupt. They wait. They ask what I think. They make space without making a show of it. It feels different. Not perfect. Not effortless. But real. When it is time to present, Marcus speaks for the group. He makes sure to include my observation about the way the light connects the figures in the painting. Hearing my contribution spoken aloud by someone else feels strange. Good strange. Like I have been part of something without having to fight for a place in it.
After class, Eli nudges me gently.“You see stuff we don’t,” he says.
Tyler nods.“You make the group smarter.”
I type something simple. We all helped.
It is the truth. And it feels good to say it. As we walk out of the building together, I feel a sense that I am not standing on the outside anymore. By the time the semester settles into its rhythm, the campus no longer feels like a place I was trying to enter. It feels like a place I am already inside. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just steadily, the way light fills a room without asking permission.
Chloe and I have our routines. Morning tea for me. Quiet sketching for her. Shared glances across crowded hallways when something ridiculous happens. Evenings spent studying or laughing or simply existing in the same space without needing to fill it. She understands my gestures before I make them. I learn the shape of her silences, rare as they are. Marcus and his friends become part of my week, too. They are still loud, still chaotic, still themselves, but they listen now. They wait for my tablet to finish speaking. They ask what I think. They do not treat me like a fragile thing or a puzzle to solve. They treat me like someone who belongs at the table. And slowly, I believe it.
I find corners of campus that feel like mine. The quiet alcove on the third floor of the library where the afternoon sun hits the wall just right. The photography studio that smells like ink and possibility. The art history classroom where I have spoken in my own language and been understood. I find independence in small ways. Fixing a jammed printer. Navigating crowded hallways. Asking for space when I need it. Letting people meet me halfway instead of shrinking to make things easier for them. Each moment is small, but together they form something solid.
My mother notices it too. When we video call on Sundays, she watches me with a relieved softness. She sees the steadiness in my shoulders. The quiet confidence in the way I type. The ease in my smile. She does not say the words, but I feel them anyway. You are growing. You are safe. You are becoming yourself.
One afternoon, as Chloe and I cross the quad, the breeze is cool on our faces, and she says, “You fit here. Like you were always meant to.”
I type, I know.
And I do. Not because I changed. Not because I forced myself to be louder or braver or different. But because Concordia gave me space to be exactly who I already was. Because my mother trusted me enough to let me go. Because new friends learned how to listen. Because I learned how to stand in my own quiet without apologizing for it. Belonging did not arrive all at once. It grew slowly, like light shifting across a room. Soft. Steady. Certain.
Chloe squeezes my arm. “Dinner?”
I nod. We walk toward the dining hall together, the campus glowing around us, the day settling into a warm, quiet certainty. I have chosen the right place. And the right place has chosen me back.
FIN
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