I realize that this blog has lasted longer than I thought it would.

The pages of the calendar ripping, slipping, flying from their frame, tossed away by the breath of procrastination and torn apart by the hands of time. From the seconds spent in front of my PC to the minutes in the airport, to the hours inside the seminar room in Cambridge sitting next to Katie, Claudia, Sara, Adela while blogging about life. All whisked away by the days in Liverpool where I sat in bed alone, tired of nothing and missing company desperately, lying when I said to people that "no, I'm fine and happy". Lies, lies, all lies, like the whispers of dreams of friends long gone that call to me at night, tugging at the ends of my lips and pulling them up, shifting them down, the fairy dust that preens my eyes with peppers and leaves them stained with tears, the last shrieks of a nightmare that was howling, screaming through my world and left me speechless in the morning.

Never did I think that I could miss a place, a name, a group of people so badly, did I think that there would come a time where I would just think of a time in my past and find my insides wrenching inside out, outside in, black shadows of joy and happiness returning to haunt me as I bite my lip almost hard enough to taste blood. The wind outside my window rings through the night, and as I lift an arm to rub the aching back of my neck, I wonder: Do my friends from Cambridge hear the same things at night now that autumn is here for them? And as I think about it, I ask myself if it's scary: is anybody still as sick for the place that was their home for a month as I am now?

Jas asked me whether I was all right when I arrived at school. Apparently, it's obvious when I'm not feeling right because my mouth reveals all, whether through the words that pass through its lips or the way they curve upwards or downwards according to whether my heart has plunged into my stomach or soaring to the sky. She asked once, asked again. Then she asked with her eyes this time, that look that reads "are you okay?" that only friends can recognize. I wanted to lie. Wanted to hide what was bothering me, bludgeoning towards me like the courage of a black stone horse. But... I can't.

So I told her the truth.

"Cambridge," I said, with a dismissive little laugh. "I'm afraid that I won't be able to get in."

Reassuring gestures, friendly encouraging smile. Of course I'd be fine, she told me. And even if I didn't do as well as I hoped, I'd been accepted into King's College London, which, in its own right, is an amazing school, silver gilded with traces of gold, a necklace hung around my neck that I would get to keep even if I didn't find my pearls. I knew, I know. I agree, I fathom, I comprehend. I don't have to worry about finances, the course, or whether I can enter university in the first place, unlike millions of people that have their hopes dashed by the promise of low grades or the cynicism of bills.

What I am worried about is the dream. The dream that I once held that materialized into a reality, then vanished again into a smoke of ash as Adela and Paul walked out from Chapel Court, the reality sinking in that this was a place that I would have to leave for good. The dream that trickled away with traces of bittersweet honey as I cried to Josi, only to have to say good-bye to her as tears started to trickle down my eyes again. The dream that slowly crumbled, fell, as I departed Jesus College for the last time that day, out of the chimmney and into the park, down to the bus station as I gave the person that sent me off a friendly wave goodbye.

The dream that I know is there, that keeps me alive with the promise that I may walk those halls again. What is the first thing I will do if I arrive in Jesus? I ask myself from time to time, and I decided that I would take photos. Photos of the remnants of our former haunt, the same place without the people that made it what it was. Genni and Michela in Clowns, a message to Adela that I'm sure she'd like to be sealed in an envelope and sent from our hearts. M staircase with inhabitants instead of the staff, the Beast and its furriness nowhere to be seen. Photographs, hollow shells of the memories that were, preserved in time and space forever but devoid of experience's soul. And then, I think I'll cry. Cry for happiness at the realization of a wish, for sadness at the people that aren't there with me, for the simple reason that I'll need hot stinging tears to remind myself that this isn't just an illusion, it's real, as real as the month that went by in the summer.

But then again, all I have to hang on to is hope. Blind optimism. Faith is slowly slipping away, leaving back the tails of her long white dress.

The next page on the calendar tears.