Every classroom I’d been in that day was set abuzz with excitement– it was finally warm. For the first time in almost six months, it was warm. The clouds in the sky were few and far between, the rays of sun tanned the pavement, and the energy couldn’t have been better– it was the perfect bait for college students.
You could almost hear the collective sighs getting out of the last class of the day. Every step towards the door was a little closer to freedom.
“Thank god,” I said, “people.”
Despite the already bright sun, the day was made instantly brighter when I ran into Marin. She was sat cross-legged on a red plaid picnic blanket next to her boyfriend Everett, another friend of mine.
She looked up with her hands shielding her eyes, greeting me with a hug and incoherent excited noises, which I always return.
Her waist-length brunette hair was tucked behind one ear and she was wearing a white tank top, red skirt, and silver heart necklace, perfectly matching her blanket.
Looking across the campus quad, we remarked that it was the first time we’d seen this many people out socializing in a long long time.
It was rare, we said, it was needed.
“I don’t know if people lost social cues or something, or if people just really don’t want to talk,” Marin said, watching a group nearby, “but I’ll try to start a conversation with someone and they won’t get that. But short little interactions, people understand.”
I nodded. There was an unspoken agreement, a script people follow.
“It’s not a big deal, but I do think it’s nice that people always at least return the compliment,” they added, “unless you catch them off guard.”
The first time Marin and I met, it was briefly in passing. I complimented her hair, she complimented my clothes, we smiled, and went about our day. This happened fairly regularly until our mutual friend, Everett, formally introduced us.
Without even knowing it, we followed this social script to a tee.
“I think it’s kind of sad how disengaged we are,” they admitted after a moment.“Not just with other people, even just with nature. Our attention spans were–” she laughed, correcting herself, “Are so fucked.”
“Actually trying to talk to someone for longer than, like, two seconds, they just kind of shut down,” replied Everett.
Our trio looked around at the students basking in the sun, alone together. The warmth had drawn people out, but even now, they stayed separate. Like islands in a shallow sea– close enough to see each other’s shores but each surrounded by its own quiet water.
Every group was its own bubble, its own world, its own space. They rarely interacted with each other. Issues arose when the bubbles were popped.
The small group tanning gave nasty looks to the ones playing soccer when the ball came a little too close. The student employee collecting surveys had to bribe people to even look up, much less participate, with a tray of candy carefully balanced on their hand.
The communal lack of awareness was stark, but we all agreed it was the best we’d seen it. At least in a very long time.
“I do the same thing,” said Everett, “I just come out here to nap and listen to music and it’s fine, but still, I’m listening to something. I’m always doing something.”
