The Long Lost Roommate

I haven't written in four years, and the other day I stumbled upon a book called "642 things to write about". I picked the topic "Long Lost Roommate" and this is what came of it. Feedback would be greatly appreciated!

First prompt being tackled in 642 things to write about.

The Long Lost Roommate

I was 18 years old, and I thought that I was an adult. And receiving the letter with the name of a stranger whom I would be assigned to live with in an 8 by 10 foot shoebox for 9 months was the first piece of tangible proof I had of this budding adulthood.

I remember looking over the letter with a mix of trepidation and excitement. Maybe we would be best friends, maybe this girl would be someone I would share secrets with at 3am, and whose grinning face would appear in pictures lining my mirror. Maybe this stranger would turn into a huge part of my life, someone who would stand in my wedding party and be called “Aunt Erin” by my kids. Yes, I thought, this would be the start of something great.

It wasn’t.

Now, that’s not to say it was the start of something terrible either. We were perfectly amiable to one another, and had the occasional nights of uncontrollable laughter and shared frustration over mountains of science homework. But we gradually grew to become mutually indifferent to one another, and now, as I stand to graduate in four months, I can count the conversations we’ve shared over the last four years on one hand. It’s not a bad thing or a good thing, it just is.

The inconsequential nature of something I thought was such a huge deal in my life is funny to me now. At 18 years old, I had my life mapped out. My freshman year roommate would be the most important person in my life and we would become inseparable confidantes, bound together by room 242. I would enter medical school upon graduating with honors. The friends I made in college would be a family to me, and I would cry at graduation thinking of being separated from these people who had shaped the life around me. College would teach me how to be an adult.

None of these things ended up being true. But that’s okay. Learning that I can’t plan these things and place arbitrary value on experiences that are supposed to be important is kind of like a weight being lifted. I’m not going to medical school this fall, but I have time to travel and be a twenty-something first. My freshman roommate did not become my best friend, but I did develop many other relationships with the people around me, and learned that sometimes love and friendship are hiding in the most unexpected places. But I couldn’t find them until I stopped staring intently only at the places I thought I was supposed to find these facets of my life. At 18, I thought I was an adult. At 22, I know that I’m close, but not quite there yet. Until then, I’m content to wander, leaving myself open to the experiences that life actually gives me, no matter how surprising they may be. This time, I’m not expecting my next roommate to be my soul-mate. But if she is, I can’t wait to meet her.