Chapter 1 #2
I thank the driver—my first official point of contact in Hawai‘i and, by default, the best conversationalist I’ve had all day. He gives me a parting nod, the kind that says good luck without actually saying it, and drives off before I can second-guess literally everything.
I pull up last week’s housing email—the one cheerfully titled Welcome to Your New Home! as if that would magically neutralize the existential dread—and make my way inside. Almost immediately, I’m hit with the overwhelming sensation that I am, objectively, out of my depth.
Students in Mānoa green cluster in doorways, perched on armrests, laughing like this is their third semester here and not, in fact, their first hour. Everyone looks infuriatingly settled—like they all got a copy of the manual I somehow missed.
Have you ever tried to act natural while your imposter syndrome is scream-singing sea shanties in your brain? It’s not ideal.
But I make the very significant effort to climb the few steps to my dorm room, the hum of pop music leaking through the door before I even reach it. It's bright, upbeat, and wildly confident—which is intimidating in the way only bubblegum vocals can be.
I knock once—more out of habit than necessity—then ease the door open with my shoulder.
The room is compact, functional, sunlit.
Two twin beds against a long white wall, a shared desk between them, shelves above, and another small desk at the foot of the far bed.
At the very back, a row of windows throws the whole space into warm, golden light and offers a sliver of campus framed by flowering trees.
On the bed closest to the door, the source of the music glances up from where she’s half-lounging, legs crossed, head bopping. She looks me over once—curious, not judgmental—then flashes a grin so genuinely warm it disarms me.
“You must be Taylor,” she says, voice syrupy-smooth as she hops off the bed and offers a hand. “I’m Maya.”
I shake it, my fingers slightly clammy because of course they are. “Coralie, actually,” I correct, trying not to wince. “Taylor’s just my last name. But yeah—hi. It’s, um… really nice to meet you.”
Maya gestures toward the bed closest to the window. “Before we keep going, I’ll tell you that I hate waking up with the sun assaulting my eyeballs, so if it’s cool with you, that one’s yours.”
It is cool with me. It’s perfect, actually—I like the sun in the morning.
I set my bags down and glance at her again, this time with slightly more processing power.
Her hair is the kind of chestnut brown that’s been artfully sun-altered in places, not by design, but by proximity to a life spent outside.
Her skin is a shade I assume is only achievable through either genetics or a lifetime of living near the ocean. Possibly both.
“I hate this part, so let’s make it quick,” Maya says, flicking through her phone until she lands on something that sounds suspiciously like early-2000s Avril Lavigne.
“I’m two years into my MBA, my GPA is technically passing, I don’t snore, but I do chew loudly enough to scare birds.
Also, I have a zero-tolerance policy for indoor shoes. ”
I glance down. My shoes are still very much on. I toe them off so fast I nearly pull a hamstring.
“Okay, um,” I begin, adjusting the strap on my bag because my hands need a job. “I’m here for the marine biology graduate program. I’m ninety percent sure I don’t snore, though no one’s formally peer-reviewed that. And I am… critically pale under the Hawaiian sun?”
She blinks once. Twice. Then lets out a laugh so unfiltered and delighted it echoes off the cinderblock walls.
“Oh, I like you. And you’re right—you look like you were printed on a grayscale setting.
But we can fix that. I knew they were going to give me a wide-eyed mainlander this year.
I just knew it. I even made a playlist for the occasion. ”
I arch an eyebrow. “A playlist?”
“It’s kind of my thing,” she says, with the air of someone admitting to a compulsive but ultimately endearing personality quirk.
“Every major event, minor inconvenience, or emotional shift—I have a soundtrack. Failed exam? Playlist. Bus ride on the way to the North Shore? Playlist. Realized I’ve been hooking up with my ex’s brother for two weeks?
You better believe there’s a playlist. And now…
” She taps at her phone, then flips it toward me like a reveal.
“A Coralie playlist. I’m curious what it’ll end up sounding like. ”
I let out a small laugh—equal parts genuine amusement and mild panic. Because truly, what does one put on a playlist dedicated to me? Ambient ocean noises? The sound of someone hyperventilating into a paper bag between grant deadlines?
Maya, meanwhile, is reclining on her bed like she invented the concept of not caring what anyone thinks.
She has the easy charisma of someone who probably led her high school feminist society and got prom queen, then turned both down on principle.
She’s sharp, disarming, and somehow pulls off jorts without a hint of irony.
I love her. I’m terrified of her. I’m not totally convinced those are two separate emotions.
There’s something about her—about the effortless way she takes up space, unapologetically herself in a tank top and a thunderously confident playlist—that makes me want to stand up straighter. Or hide under the bed. It’s unclear.
My heart rate is just beginning to stabilize—travel adrenaline ebbing, roommate anxiety processed and shelved—when the door swings open with no warning.
Two women step inside, both so objectively stunning I instinctively check whether my mouth is doing something undignified like, I don’t know, hang open.
The taller one moves first. She’s all limbs and posture, with a kind of fluid elegance that suggests her skeleton has been designed by a minimalist architect.
Her skin is rich and glowing, framed by an unapologetic crown of curls.
The other one is shorter—closer to my height, though I doubt she’s ever once been mistaken for forgettable.
She's in a bikini top and cargo pants, her hair dyed a deep, deliberate red, and tattoos cover most of her visible skin like a living, breathing art exhibit.
The taller one launches straight into a sentence. “There are ground swells right now. If I miss them because of you, Maya, I swear I’ll replace your shampoo with Nair.”
The other girl’s already nodding. “That, and if we’re late to Jack’s party, I will sign you up for a mailing list titled Women in Crypto using all three of your email addresses.”
Maya, to her credit, doesn’t even blink. “Okay. First of all—greetings. Try them sometime.” She gestures vaguely in my direction. “Second, this is Coralie. She’s my roommate. You’re scaring her.”
The tall one finally turns toward me. “Oh—hi. Sorry.”
The redhead gives me a quick once-over. “You’re new.”
“Very.”
She squints. “And definitely not from here.”
“Is it the wool socks?”
Her lips curl into a smirk. “Yeah, dead giveaway. Cute top, though.”
Maya throws me a glance like, see, this is the fun part, then says, “Coralie, meet Alana and Soren. They’re—well. You’ll see.”
I offer a smile, because that’s what people do when they’re trying not to give away how deeply overwhelmed they are. “Nice to meet you.”
Alana grins and tosses her curls over one shoulder. “Oh no. She’s polite. We’re going to ruin her.”
“Speak for yourself,” Soren adds, now sitting on the edge of Maya’s bed. “I’m a great influence.”
This earns an unrestrained snort from Maya, who’s packing her beach tote at a pace I can already tell is giving Alana hives. She glances up at me. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re going surfing and then to a party. You’re welcome to join.”
Both her friends turn to me with warm, open smiles—the kind that make your chest go weird in a way that’s probably reserved for mutual girl-code recognition.
I give it genuine consideration—like, full cognitive effort, pros and cons, not just for show.
It’s not that I don’t want to go. Or maybe it is, a little.
Maybe it’s because I’ve already hit my personal growth quota for the day.
Maybe it’s because “Coralie” and “party” have historically been mutually exclusive variables.
Still, the idea of stepping into the Pacific—of making friends, real ones, on day one—has its appeal. A strong one.
In the end, though, exhaustion and social anxiety win this round. “Thanks, but maybe some other time. I’m not even sure whether I can stand upright for another hour.”
Soren shrugs, the chain on her cargo pants catching the light as she does. “Cool. See you around, maybe.”
Alana gives me a small wave, her bright smile knocking the air out of me once more, and pulls Maya out the room with her in one swift motion. And just like that, they’re gone.
I blink into the quiet that follows, still slightly winded. The hurricane of first encounters has passed, and I am left in its wake—alone in what will be my new home, which feels quieter than before. But also—oddly—like mine.
For a moment, I consider staying in. Unpacking, maybe.
Organizing my books by sub-discipline. Calling it a night and pretending that today didn’t unravel every thread of my nervous system.
But the sun is still out, the chatter outside my window still very much alive, and my curiosity has never once learned to sit still.
So I swap out my fleece-lined sweat trap for a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and slip back outside.
This time, without the burden of luggage or first-impression dread—or the paralyzing fear of saying something irreversibly awkward, which I may or may not have already done—I let myself actually look. Not just glance or catalog. But see.
And what I do see is… stunning. Not just the postcard stuff, though the mountains and flower-drenched trees do their part.
It's the people—bright-eyed, sun-kissed, speaking a hundred miles a minute in a dozen different languages. It’s the birds, their calls unfamiliar but oddly melodic, like nature’s version of jazz improv.
It’s the smell of something grilled wafting through the air from an origin I absolutely intend to locate and befriend.
I walk for what feels like an hour. Maybe more.
I dodge stressed parents and unfazed upperclassmen, pass orientation booths and lawn games and one student napping in a hammock with a novel stuck to their face.
It’s chaos. It’s joy. It’s been taped to my bedroom wall in brochure form for the last four years, and now it’s real.
Eventually, with my feet mildly protesting, I loop back to the campus bookstore. I clocked it on my first lap and made a mental note of the entrance—slightly to the left of the deep green stairs and the Rainbow Warriors statue.
Inside, I’m greeted by cool air and an efficient student worker who asks for my ID.
I brace—internally—for a tuition-adjacent total, the kind of number that makes you reevaluate your need for an education.
Instead, they scan my card, hand me a neatly packed tote full of required readings, and smile like this happens all the time.
Right. Full scholarship.
Which, rationally, I know is the only reason I’m here.
If these books hadn’t come pre-paid by academic merit and one extremely persistent letter-writing mentor, I would still be by the Atlantic, pouring coffee for fishers and cataloguing cephalopod trivia in my head. So yes, I’m grateful. Beyond grateful.
And still—there’s a flicker of discomfort I can’t quite name.
Like I’ve found some secret back door into academia that wasn’t meant for people like me, and now I’m sneaking around hoping the system doesn’t notice.
Which is ridiculous. I earned this. I know that.
But imposter syndrome doesn’t respond well to logic.
It feeds on moments like these. On small kindnesses that feel too big.
On paperwork that confirms you belong, while your brain continues to draft appeals for reconsideration.
And just like that, the anxiety returns. Not loud, not screaming—just a quiet, needling reminder that luck, in any meaningful amount, comes with terms and conditions. And absolutely no margin for error.
I shove the tote over my shoulder, smile back at the student worker, and walk out like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.
No one needs to know that I very much do not.
It’s not until I’m seated on my bed—books unpacked, stickers on the wall, clothes where they nominally belong, and a half-eaten spam musubi balanced on my lap—that I allow myself the kind of self-reflection any therapist would frame and hang on their office wall.
I start with the basics. What I do know, empirically: I’m happy to be here.
I’m proud of every carefully engineered step that got me to this exact bed, this exact school, this exact—frankly life-altering—snack.
That part’s easy. That part scans. But emotional science doesn’t stop at observable data, so I go deeper.
Because surface-level feelings always float on something else, right?
I miss the cold. I miss the fog. I miss the Atlantic biting at my face and the gulls screaming like tiny, feathered nihilists. I am, to be clear, still unsettled by what I can only describe as a rogue coalition of feral chickens claiming land rights.
And underneath all of that, there are a million things I don’t know. A million questions, untested theories, branching possibilities about how this year will unfold—who I’ll meet, who I’ll become. And while that thought should send me spiraling into a full academic-grade panic, it doesn’t.
Because people think science is about answers. But I’ve always liked the questions best. That narrow space between certainty and mystery? That’s where the good stuff lives.
The chaos of it, the not-knowing, the floating hypotheses waiting to be tested—it’s unsettling, sure. But it’s also exhilarating. The whole point of inquiry is that you don’t start with conclusions. You start with curiosity. And if there’s one thing I’ve never lacked, it’s that.
So no, I don’t know if I’ll thrive here.
I don’t know if I’ll make friends, or survive graduate-level statistics, or ever get used to sweating through three layers of SPF by 9 a.m. I don’t know if I’ll learn to surf, or fall in love, or end up crying in a lab at 2 a.m. because the data won’t line up the way I need it to.
But I do know how to investigate. I know how to adapt. I know how to take uncertainty and break it into manageable pieces until it becomes something I can hold in my hands.
I know how to begin.