The story begins in a small room painted, quite simply, a light grey. A mud-colored door enclosed the room. A single bed dressed in a tan striped sheet dominated most of the space, but I was glad to have it. 5A1, my room at The Cube.
This was my space, and I could often be found sitting in it. I was the only one in the three-bedroom flat until the week after my arrival in Wellington. I missed the quiet when the others moved in.
After settling into the flat, though, I bought a $2, white ceramic cup with cartoon sheep on it from the Salvation Army, started cooking oatmeal and vegetable dishes, and attempted to regularly talk with my flatmates.
I went to the university up the street. My fleeting time there went on, class after class, and yet I never felt like I truly belonged until I began making acquaintances. One class I’ll always remember is Creative Processes with all the people, laughs, mistakes, wishes, games, smiles. Waking up to go to that class was like coming home and drinking a cup of tea on a cold night. Tonight was my last day in the class. At first, I thought it would be a seemingly impossible class for me, but it wasn’t. Now it’s over, and I am crying about it.
But then again, everything is over now. My life has reached an end in Wellington.
I’ll take a while to recover from having fallen for New Zealand. I’m back in this same flat about to head back to my city of lights, though the faces I have seen every day will always remain in a corner of my mind. I know I’ll see flashes of my friends, acquaintances, and peers as I go home which makes my heart ache even more.