This weekend, I finally decorated my room. I’d put it off for too long; only a knee injury and being trapped in my small corner of campus forced me to finally address my blank walls. I ended up perched on my bed, leg locked and crutches just within reach, trying to press photos into the corners of my walls. I used the wrong kind of tape, though, so the edges of my photos keep peeling up, stubborn and suspended in air. Every day, my half-stuck photos wait for me to get back from class, daring my hands to smooth them back down.
I live in my sorority and most of the people I live with are seniors. Everything is a “last”— last spring term, last first day of class. I keep telling myself none of these are actually my lasts. I still have another spring, another round of firsts, more days to claim. And yet, a feeling has seeped in, a quiet urgency that time is already moving too fast. One of my friends told me she aimed to journal every night of her senior spring and I felt tears welling in my eyes. I catch myself walking through the living room or climbing the stairs and thinking: Will I remember this? Will it matter? It’s the kind of worry that steals the moment before it even arrives. It's nostalgia before the fact.
I’ve taken to staring at my sorority’s composites on the walls as I walk through the house. There was a girl who graduated before I arrived with my exact name. I imagine a third Aditi Gupta, someday, standing here, wondering what she’s meant to do with her life. Around me, the ’28s are preparing for their sophomore summer. One of them asked to see my room, hoping to secure it for the summer, and my first instinct was shock. I just claimed this space, just ran through the house searching for the biggest, brightest room, eager to make it mine. Time moves faster than I notice.
I keep trying to decide what will matter years from now, when I have a career and maybe a family, when college feels like forever ago. But the moments I remember most aren’t labeled as important when they happen. They simply are.
This week in Mirror, we savor the small moments. One writer explores the best locations to take graduation photos. Another looks for the best breakfast sandwich in Hanover. And, our two cooking columnists return for a piece about horchata. Finally, our relationship columnists tackle a difficult topic: trust issues.
I’ll keep making vague meal plans I never follow up on. I’ll crash on my house’s library couch when I’ve worked too late to make it to my bed. I’ll overshare on Woccums, immediately regretting it. None of it feels consequential now. But this is exactly the point, Mirror. I can’t preselect the moments that will matter. All I can do is live as though each one will be the day I look back on, uncomfortable or ordinary, and find myself missing it.
Aditi Gupta ’27 is a Mirror editor from Ridgefield, Conn. She is majoring in Biology with minors in Global Health and English. On campus, she spends most of her time working in a cell biology lab. She hopes to pursue a career that integrates her love for scientific research with her broader academic interests in health and literature.
