Berkeley buzz

VIOLET

The campus buzzed with life as I stepped into the morning sunshine, my messenger bag slung over my shoulder and my coffee cup clutched tightly in my hand.

Berkeley smelled different in the morning—like fresh-cut grass, brewing espresso, and just a hint of stress. Students streamed past me in all directions, laughing, chatting, or staring intently at their phones as they weaved through the crowd.

Today was the real start. No more dorm room introductions or unpacking excuses. I had my first lecture at 9 a.m., and according to my meticulously marked-up schedule, I had exactly fifteen minutes to find Dwinelle Hall.

I glanced down at my outfit—a band T-shirt tucked into my high-waisted jeans and paired with my trusty Converse. Casual but not careless, I hoped. 

Pulling out my map (again), I tried to figure out which way to go. The buildings all looked the same to me, sprawling and ancient with ivy clinging to their walls like nature was trying to reclaim its territory.

A group of students passed by, laughing about something I couldn’t hear. I caught snippets of their conversation: “Did you see the syllabus? It’s brutal!” “I heard the professor’s amazing, though.”

I wasn’t sure if they were heading to the same place, but I followed them anyway, hoping they were going to the lecture hall.

The nervous flutter in my stomach grew stronger with every step. What if I got lost? Or worse, what if I walked into the wrong class? Would people notice? Would they laugh?

“Relax, Violet,” I muttered under my breath, taking a deep sip of my coffee as if caffeine could magically erase my worries.

“Need help?” a voice asked, startling me.

I looked up to see a girl with a bright yellow backpack slung over one shoulder and a curious expression on her face. Her braided hair was tied into two neat buns, and her oversized denim jacket was covered in quirky pins.

“Uh, yeah,” I admitted, feeling a little embarrassed. “I’m trying to find Dwinelle Hall, but this map might as well be in another language.”

She grinned. “First day, huh?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” she said with a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ve been there. I’m Amelia, by the way.”

“Violet,” I said, returning her smile.

“Well, Violet, you’re in luck. I’m heading that way. Come on.”

I followed her through the winding paths of campus, grateful for her easygoing demeanor.

“What class are you heading to?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Intro to Creative Writing,” I replied. “It’s my first class.”

“Oh, nice! I took that last semester. Professor Hargrove is amazing. You’ll love her.”

I felt a little of my nervousness melt away at her words. “That’s good to hear. I was worried it might be...intimidating.”

“Not at all,”Amelia said. “Hargrove’s super chill. She’ll probably have you start with something fun, like a flash fiction exercise or a group project. Nothing too scary.”

“Group projects are scary,” I muttered, my mind briefly wandering to high school and the memory of being paired with Ryan Jenkins for the first time. It wasn’t just scary then—it was chaotic, frustrating, and somehow... life-changing.

“You’ll survive,” she said, nudging me lightly. “So, where are you from?”

“New York,” I said, adjusting the strap of my messenger bag.

“Ooh, big city girl! I bet Berkeley feels tiny in comparison.”

“A little,” I admitted. “But it’s nice. Different.”

As we walked, Amelia pointed out landmarks—the library, the student center, the best coffee cart on campus. By the time we reached Dwinelle Hall, I felt a little more grounded.

“This is it” she said, gesturing to the building.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, smiling. “I really appreciate the help.”

“No problem. And hey, if you ever need someone to show you around—or just vent about how weird college can be—look me up.” She handed me a small piece of paper with her number on it, then gave me a wave and headed off.

As I stepped into the lecture hall, I tucked the note into my bag, grateful for her kindness.

The lecture hall was massive, the kind of room that made you feel like a tiny speck in a sea of strangers. Students filtered in around me, chatting and laughing like they already knew everyone in the room. Meanwhile, I kept my head down, clutching my notebook tightly and pretending to reread the syllabus I’d already memorized.

I’d picked a seat near the middle—not too far back to seem disengaged, but not so close to the front that I’d draw attention. It was the perfect spot to blend in, or so I thought.

The hum of conversation around me was loud but not overwhelming. A group of girls a few rows ahead were swapping notes on another class, their voices high and animated. To my right, a guy with a beanie was scrolling on his phone, completely tuned out from the world.

I didn’t try to join in or make eye contact with anyone. That wasn’t why I was here.

Just then, the door at the front of the room opened, and a woman strode in, radiating confidence. She was tall with short silver hair and sharp glasses perched on her nose. Dressed in a tailored blazer and jeans, she carried an air of someone who had seen the world and wasn’t afraid to write about it.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, setting her bag on the desk at the front. “I’m Professor Hargrove, and welcome to Intro to Creative Writing.”

The room quieted instantly as all eyes turned to her.

“This isn’t just a class,” she continued, her voice warm but commanding. “It’s a journey. We’re not just here to write; we’re here to discover. To dive deep into what makes us human. By the end of this semester, you’ll have written pieces you didn’t know you were capable of.”

I leaned forward, already captivated.
She handed out the syllabus and went over the class expectations, pausing occasionally to tell stories about her career as a writer. It was captivating—the way she spoke, how her words painted pictures in the air. By the time she gave out our first assignment, I was already hooked.

“Your first piece,” she announced, “is about transformation. Write about a moment that changed you, for better or worse. Be raw. Be honest. Due next week.”

As the class ended and students started to pack up, I stayed in my seat for a moment longer, staring at the blank page of my notebook.

Transformation. The word echoed in my mind.

There were so many moments I could choose from. But the one that came to mind first—the one I couldn’t ignore—was Ryan.

I shook my head, shoving the thought away as I slipped my notebook into my bag. That was a memory I wasn’t ready to unpack here, not yet.

I left the lecture hall quickly, avoiding eye contact with anyone as I stepped out into the fresh air. The campus was alive with movement—students heading to their next classes, laughter spilling out from somewhere near the student center.

I clutched the strap of my bag, letting the energy of the campus wash over me as I walked to my dorm.

As I pushed open the door to my dorm room, I was greeted by Mia, who was lounging on her bed with a magazine sprawled across her lap. She looked up with a smirk, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Violet," she said in a singsong voice, sitting up straighter. "Someone’s asking for you."

I froze, dropping my bag by the door. "Who?"

Nia shrugged, but her grin widened. "Tall, extremely hot, blonde hair, and oh my God—so dreamy. Like, straight out of a romance novel kind of dreamy."

My heart skipped a beat, and it didn’t take me a moment to realize who it was.

I rushed to the window, brushing the curtain aside to take a quick peek. And there he was—Ryan.