Cecilia Lee

After a Spring Break that featured lots of showers without flip-flops and sleeping in my own bed, I returned to Yale with fears of rats in our room and four essays due before Tuesday.

As I walked back into my suite, the first sight that greeted me was the second- or maybe third-hand dark brown couch in the C21 common room. It is, by most objective standards, not much to look at. To me, it’s perfect.

Last year, I rarely spent time in my suite. I liked my suitemates just fine — actually, I would go as far as to say I actively enjoyed spending time with them. But I was busy. They were busy. And for whatever reason, we just never put in enough effort to make it happen. Homer Simpson could count on one hand how many times we all hung out together.

Our common room reflected this reality. It was sparsely furnished with the standard Red Yale Couches and Chairs™, one plant and a few of my homemade “art” pieces on the walls. We didn’t mind. We were usually out and about, making friends, engaging socially, being good first years.

But now, my current suitemates and I — wizened, old sophomores that we are — have retired to domestic bliss. The decorations make our suite feel downright homely. Our ratty couch is a centerpiece. Sections of the couch hide under excessively large, still kind of ugly blankets. A framed and signed polaroid of the six of us from move-in day sits above the fireplace next to far more bags of almonds, cashews and peanuts than we could possibly want or need. 

In spite of one noble suitemate’s efforts, our cleanliness has waned over the course of the year. Code Names, Seven Wonders and a chess board lie around and remind me of game nights together. A sheriff’s hat, a pink LED hat and a Fizz hat that nobody quite knows how we acquired lie around. They’ve gotten more use from each of us than anybody could have imagined. Food containers lie around in varying states of disgusting. We’ve gone through too many boxes of cookies, bags of popcorn and cups of ramen than any six human beings should consume, but somehow, these remain.

These items aren’t inherently valuable. In fact, some might argue that they’re gross, especially the one Cup o’Noodles that I’m afraid to touch. But they’re indicative of something that does hold value.

We’ve actually lived in our suite. We’ve watched movies and sang way too loud at 2 a.m. We’ve welcomed friends in to share the place with us. We’ve stayed up until 3 a.m. talking about our strong desire to avoid thinking about the future. We’ve cried over boys and we’ve cried over girls and most of all we’ve cried over computer science. 

Over the break, don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled to shower without my shower shoes. Thrilled. And seeing my parents finished in a close second in terms of things that made me happy.

But each night, as I exited the shower and got ready for bed alone, something felt wrong. Nobody called to me from a common room couch, asking me to come hang out for a little bit, singing their siren song of gossip.

Screenagers that we are, the suite kept in touch over the two weeks. We texted updates and sent selfies to properly express our reactions. We hyped each other up on social media. But you can’t quite replicate the midnight popcorn bag offering or the “goodnight” call-out as you shut the door to your room.

So while that Sunday afternoon arrival was filled with dread that was only heightened in the library at 4 a.m. the next night, it was also filled with warmth and excitement. Oddly enough, after a train ride from my childhood apartment, I felt like I was coming back home.