So I adapted, because adapting was the only reflex I trusted. I enrolled anyway. I filled out loan forms in a public library computer lab because the printer at home was somehow always unavailable when the paperwork had my name on it. I found a room in a shared house near a bus route. I packed with more speed than sentiment because no one offered to help me carry anything, and leaving was easier if I moved like I had no right to pause.
Colorado was colder than I imagined and lonelier than I expected. Every weekday I rode a bus for an hour, sometimes more when traffic and snow turned the roads into a gray, slow-moving argument. I learned the schedule the way some people learn prayers: which stop had the broken bench, which driver never waited if you were running, which mornings the sun hit the windows at just the right angle to reveal everybody’s exhaustion. I kept a cheap sketchbook in my bag and drew logo ideas between stops to stay awake.
I went to class. I worked a café shift three nights a week. I studied through the noise of roommates who seemed to have been born understanding both money and belonging. I got home near eleven most nights, opened my laptop, and sometimes fell asleep with my cheek pressed to the keyboard. Winter entered my bones when our heater broke and the landlord delayed repairs. I sat in layers, typing until my fingers stung. I watched other students cross campus in jackets their parents bought them, climb into cars their parents had insured, complain about final exams while I was quietly calculating whether half a textbook chapter was worth skipping dinner.
Meanwhile Chloe posted photographs from her private dorm: string lights, pastel bedding, brunch plates, journalism mixers, networking events, captions about ambition and becoming. My father updated the neighbors with pride. “Chloe’s going places,” he said whenever anyone asked. When someone asked about me, he shrugged. “Elena’s still figuring things out. Not everyone is college material.”
He didn’t lower his voice when he said it. He never did when speaking dismissively about me. Perhaps he believed volume made it truth.