🌟"Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it." - Helen Keller🌟

I was on time when I reached my next class. Professor Johnson, introduced himself and didn't waste a single moment before diving into the main part.

As the class settled into their seats, the professor's voice filled the room, carrying an air of excitement and anticipation. The topic written on the whiteboard—'Poetry'—loomed before us, inviting a multitude of thoughts and emotions.

I glanced around, observing the faces of my fellow classmates, each lost in their own contemplation. The question hung in the air, beckoning for someone to share their initial response. And then, a voice broke the silence, timid yet resolute.

"Expression," a classmate spoke softly, the word floating amidst the hushed atmosphere. It resonated with a sense of vulnerability and authenticity, capturing the essence of what poetry often evoked—a means to express thoughts, emotions, and experiences in a uniquely crafted language.

The professor nodded, acknowledging the response. "Yes, expression is at the heart of poetry. It offers a medium for capturing the intricacies of the human experience, where words become vessels for emotions that may otherwise be difficult to articulate."

Another voice chimed in, adding to the growing conversation. "Beauty," they said, their eyes alight with admiration. "Poetry has a way of distilling beauty into its purest form, transforming everyday moments and mundane words into something extraordinary."

The professor smiled, encouraging the class to delve deeper into their perceptions. "Indeed, poetry has an innate ability to uncover beauty in the ordinary, unveiling layers of meaning that might otherwise go unnoticed."

One by one, students shared their thoughts, their responses painting a mosaic of perspectives. Words like rhythm, introspection, imagination, and catharsis filled the air, capturing the myriad ways poetry touched their lives.

As the discussion unfolded, I felt a surge of inspiration. The words and sentiments expressed by my classmates kindled a newfound appreciation for the power of poetry. It was not merely a collection of verses or rhymes, but a gateway to untapped emotions, a source of solace, and a mirror to the human experience.

I raised my hand, eager to contribute my own thoughts. The professor acknowledged me, inviting me to share. "Connection," I said, my voice filled with conviction. "When I hear poetry, I think of the power it holds to connect people, to bridge gaps between cultures, and to evoke empathy. It has the ability to transcend boundaries and touch the core of our shared humanity."

"That's a great answer, Ms. Hope" He smiled.

"Anyone else who would like to add on to this?"

"Poetry is an echo that comes directly from the soul. Each word defines a certain meaning when it comes to poetry; we can write our rhythm, our destiny, our path. Putting our emotions in the form of words is what poetry is" someone spoke.

"That's an excellent answer, Aidan. Very well-articulated" he said. As the words flowed from Aidan's lips, resonating with a profound truth, the classroom seemed to hold its breath. His eloquence painted a vivid picture of the essence of poetry—an echo emanating directly from the depths of one's soul. The weight of his words hung in the air, their impact echoing through the room.

Intrigued, I mustered the courage to sneak a glance in Aidan's direction. As our eyes met, I felt a jolt of electricity pass through me, his ocean blue gaze piercing through the layers of my curiosity. I quickly averted my eyes.

An enigma that drew my attention despite my best efforts to remain composed.

Same ocean blue eyes. Life is playing a cruel game with me.

As the class continued, my thoughts wandered, fixated on those mesmerizing eyes that had held mine for an instant. I wondered about the stories hidden within their depths, the thoughts and emotions that danced within their azure hue.

When I finally made myself to look away ignoring the fact that the hair on the back of my neck stood.

After a few question and answer, professor further explained the topic of fiction.

The collective groan of dismay reverberated through the classroom as the announcement of an assignment echoed in the air. The professor, undeterred by the uproar, raised a hand to silence the dissenting voices.

"Ohh, hush!" he exclaimed, his tone both playful and authoritative. "You don't have to submit it right away. You have a whole month to work on it." He paused, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his eyes. "And I would like to see a sample poem."

A mixture of surprise and curiosity swept across the room, as the collective dissatisfaction began to transform into an air of creative anticipation. The professor's insistence on originality struck a chord, reminding us of the significance of our own voices and unique expressions.

His warning against plagiarism served as a gentle reminder of the integrity and authenticity that poetry demanded. It was an invitation to delve deep within ourselves, to tap into the wellspring of our thoughts and emotions, and to weave them into a tapestry of words that bore the imprint of our individuality.

After the class, I entered the bustling cafeteria, my eyes scanned the crowd in search of Kate, eager to fulfil our lunchtime plans and meet her group of friends. However, a tinge of disappointment washed over me as I realized she was nowhere to be found.

I navigated through the sea of tables, my gaze darting from one group to another, hoping to catch a glimpse of her familiar face. Perhaps she had gotten caught up in some last-minute thing. Regardless of the reason, I understood that sometimes plans can be disrupted, and I tried to quell any lingering frustration.

Resigned to the fact that our meeting would have to be postponed, I made my way to an empty table, my mind filled with a mix of anticipation and curiosity about the friends she had promised to introduce me to. I reminded myself that patience was a virtue, and that tomorrow held the promise of a new opportunity.

I settled into my seat, I ate my lunch quietly, listening to my favourite music as a habit.

With the final lecture of the day concluded, I made my way back to the dorm room, yearning for a moment of solitude and reflection.

As I entered my dorm room, the usual sense of comfort and familiarity washed over me. However, a subtle feeling of unease tinged the air, catching me off guard. It took a moment for me to remember the reason behind this unexpected shift in atmosphere. I had a new roommate, and it seemed they had already settled in.

My gaze shifted from the familiar surroundings to the figure standing before me. A girl, adorned with an array of tattoos and piercings, greeted me with an amused expression dancing across her face. A mixture of surprise and curiosity swirled within me, unsure of what to expect from this unexpected encounter.

"Hey there," she said, her voice laced with a hint of intrigue. "I guess we're roommates now. I hope you don't mind the ink and metal." She gestured to her decorated body, a canvas that told tales yet unknown.

I quickly gathered my wits, reminding myself of the importance of open-mindedness and embracing diversity. After all, college was a melting pot of experiences, and the chance to live with someone different from myself was an opportunity for growth and understanding.

A smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I replied, "Not at all. It's great to meet you. I'm Hope."

She extended a hand, revealing an intricately inked sleeve that seemed to come alive as she moved. "I am Ember, but call me Em," she said, her piercing gaze meeting mine. "Looks like we're in for an interesting journey together."

Em's vibrant presence infused the room with a newfound energy, a reminder that life is a tapestry woven from a myriad of colors, textures, and perspectives.

I took a moment to appreciate the intricate artwork that adorned Em's body. Instead of feeling overwhelmed, I found myself fascinated by the creativity and beauty of her chosen form of art.

My curiosity piqued as I said "I actually find it fascinating. It's a beautiful form of self-expression. Your tattoos and piercings tell stories, and I'm intrigued to hear them."

Em's eyes sparkled with a mix of surprise and delight. She had likely encountered judgment or misunderstanding in the past, and my genuine interest in her tattoos and piercings was a refreshing change. It was clear that we were off to a good start.

"That's great to hear," Em responded, her voice filled with appreciation. "I believe that we all have unique stories to share. It's interesting how we've ended up as roommates, isn't it?"

I nodded in agreement, a smile forming on my face. "Absolutely! It's like the universe wanted us to cross paths."

Em's eyes held a glimmer of understanding, as if she too had pondered the significance of our encounter. Our shared appreciation for individuality and diversity seemed to build a bridge between us, bridging the gap between strangers and creating a sense of connection.

"I couldn't agree more," Em remarked, her voice filled with enthusiasm.

As Em spoke, I felt a surge of excitement and anticipation. The realization dawned on me that college was about more than just attending classes and studying. It was about forging connections, embracing new perspectives, and celebrating the beauty of diversity.

"Me too," I replied, my voice brimming with optimism.

Em nodded in agreement, her tattoos seeming to come alive with a newfound vibrancy. "Definitely. Each tattoo and piercing holds a story, a part of who I am. But I'm also eager to discover the stories that lie beneath your surface. We all have our own tales waiting to be embraced."

Her words touched a chord within me.

"I couldn't have said it better," I responded.

Em grinned, a genuine warmth radiating from her. "That's the spirit, Hope."

As I delved deeper into Em's world, I discovered that her passions extended beyond her hauntingly beautiful presence. She was a woman of immense talent, with a profound love for both music and art. The melodies of her soul were expressed through the delicate touch of her fingers on the piano keys, and her emotions spilled onto canvases in bold and vibrant strokes.

"I'm majoring in literature," I confessed, a hint of regret lacing my words. "It seems our paths won't cross in the classroom."

She nodded, her expression a mix of understanding and wistfulness. It was true; our academic pursuits had diverged, leading us down separate corridors of knowledge. But as I gazed into her eyes, I knew that the boundaries of classes and disciplines would not define the connection that was growing between us.

"Perhaps," she said softly, her voice carrying a glimmer of hope, "we can find other ways to share our love for music and art."

Raising our metaphorical glasses, we shared a moment of silent celebration, knowing that the bonds we were about to form would shape our college years in ways we couldn't yet comprehend.

★★★★★

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