Keira
The journalism building looked exactly the same as it had the day I'd first walked through its doors as a nervous freshman, the same worn carpet, the same faint smell of old paper and burnt coffee, though everything about how I moved through it now felt entirely different from the girl who'd once sat at that corner desk convinced hockey players were nothing but arrogant, self-important athletes who created their own problems.
I'd come back one final time before the move, my editor having asked for a farewell piece, something reflective for the student paper's final issue of the year, and I found myself drawn back to the exact desk where all of this had somehow, impossibly, begun.
I sat there for a long moment, laptop open, cursor blinking on an empty page, trying to figure out how
