After we hang up, I stand there. The frigid white sunlight shines through the dim blinds; my physical surroundings are completely disconnected from my tears, and the silence is so apathetic, so detatched, it's slightly laughable. What a picture I make, woman in transition. I feel 18/19/20/21/22 all at once, time-less and time-stopped and time-whooshing-by. I pick up the phone again, dial two numbers, leave two voicemails. Morgan. Michael. They were there, so much more within it than I am at this moment, and yet I need them to know that I was in it too. Two that I care so much about, two who are on different parts of the journey, student and alum -- and in a split second (that was actually two hours that was actually a season that was actually four years, how the hell did this happen?), I’ve left one part and crossed to the other.
Read the whole thing.