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Last Saturday, I gave three strangers a tour of my house. They had lived there the same year I was born. As we weaved through the hallways and exchanged stories from our experiences two decades apart,  it hit me for the first time: At the end of this month, I, too, will have to leave my second home.

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Today, I took a walk through campus and visited some of my favorite spots.

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Memories filled my mind; the weight of reality pressed down upon my shoulders.

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I watched yellow leaves drift down the creek until they decided to rest on the rocks.

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I observed the sun peeking through the canopy of the redwood grove.

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I chipped old paint off the rundown building covered in mosaics that no one seems to notice.

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I sat on the bench tucked away in the trees in front of Wheeler Hall and tried to imagine all of the people who had sat there before me.

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Tomorrow, I do not know where I will go or what I will do or who I will be with. But I do know I will hold these moments, this experience — all of the little details, dearly.