THE SHAPE OF TIME

Time is such a paradoxical thing. Some people say time flies, and in a similar fashion we used to kill time. So what is the thin line between time flying and killing time? So, the first year is ending and everyone is going home tomorrow, and I’m on campus until as long as I can be. Because I don’t want to let go of this year this quickly. How did the first year end so quickly? It just seems like yesterday that I was asking everyone the way to places on campus. I hadn’t even fully memorized the routes yet? How is it all over? Or should I pause for three months?

So, I was talking about time. Today, my friend had booked his flight, and instead of 3 pm, it was at 3 am. And it made me think about time so much. What is the difference between leaving at 3 pm and 3 am? On one hand, you’re leaving comfortably in the safety of the day, and on the other, you’re leaving in an adrenaline rush at the risk of the night. But you’re sleepy both times. How come time flies so slowly when you want it to pass faster, and how come it flashes past when you want it to slow down? Or is it our own psychology that limits us from controlling time in our grasps? Or is it physics? Psychology says time is subjective; physics says it's constant. So which is it? Is time something we measure or something we feel?

If I look back upon things, the first day I walked on this campus and the version of me today are two different people. But when did that change exactly happen? It didn’t happen in a day. I didn’t realize it happened. It's like things change dx amount every day, and those small changes added up to a whole new big change. I will leave this campus to either fall back into the same patterns or for things to change completely. No summer is the same, right? Will this one be an exception, or will this summer bring forth something new that I've never seen before?

What about the people that I’ve met on the way? Never did I think that I would find so many people who care so much about me. I hope I’m done learning about friendships by breaking them because the bunch I'm with, i'd hate it so much if i mess up things with them. All of them are good people who care about each other and most importantly me. Never did I imagine people would feel like home. And now that they do, how do I walk away, even temporarily? Why does it feel like life is made of hellos and goodbyes stitched together?

And what now? Do I pause for three months, like pressing play on a different life and hoping this one resumes where I left it? Or do I let it keep running in the background, like a playlist that never stops—only changes songs when you’re not listening? People evolve over the summer—sometimes gently, sometimes all at once. What if we come back slightly different, slightly out of sync? What if the jokes don’t land the same, the conversations don’t flow the same, the silences become a little longer?

I want to believe that the important ones stay. That the ones meant for me will orbit back into my life, no matter the time or distance. But a part of me is terrified. What if this was it? What if this fleeting, golden year was the beginning and the peak? What if I already lived the moments I’ll remember most? Maybe this is what growing up feels like: grieving moments while you’re still living them.

Time doesn’t ask if I’m ready. It just moves. And in its indifferent rush forward, it leaves me no choice, do I white-knuckle the past, or stumble into the next thing, even if I don’t recognize it yet?

Maybe the hurt is proof this year mattered. Not just because it’s ending, but because I let myself live inside it so completely. The loud laughter, the nights at the lake, the time spent playing with food in the Dining Hall just so that you spend more time together, the walks to the arcade to get ice cream, the trips to Mahesh. the sidewalks that know my footsteps better than I do, none of it was just time passing. It was me, changing without permission.

And isn’t that the sharpest joke? Only when forced to look back do I see how much I’ve shifted. The friendships, the mess-ups, the small wins—they stacked up quietly, like bricks building a version of me I don’t fully know yet. Now, standing at summer’s edge, it’s like staring at a door left ajar. Light spills out, but I can’t see what’s waiting.

What if the fear isn’t about time speeding or crawling? What if it’s the sickening truth that I’ll never get this exact self—or these exact people—back again? Seasons change. People change.

I’ll change. And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe the beauty is in the slipping away, the way moments dissolve like sugar in water, forcing me to taste them while they’re still sweet.

So I’ll sit with the ache. I’ll let the silence stretch a little longer tonight, walk the campus like it's an old friend I’m saying goodbye to in pieces. I won’t try to bottle this version of life or freeze it in amber—I’ll just hold it softly, like something too delicate to grip.

And when the room empties out, I’ll take a breath. I’ll carry the laughter in the back of my throat and the memories like a scent that lingers long after the person is gone."

Because maybe growing up isn’t about letting go. Maybe it’s about learning how to carry people, places, and versions of yourself inside you without making them heavy. Maybe it’s about knowing that time will take, but it also gives.

And maybe, just maybe, when I come back—it won’t feel strange at all.

Maybe we’ll fall back into step like nothing’s changed.

Maybe the jokes will land even better, and the laughter will echo louder, because we made it back

Maitri Begur is an undergraduate studying Economics and Finance, with a deep interest in narrative nonfiction and reflective writing. Her work often explores themes of memory, identity, and the emotional landscapes of growing up. She finds inspiration in the small, quiet moments of daily life. “Shape of Time” is her debut publication.