chalk stars

by Tarini Malhotra

Gold and shimmer stream through the open window; the sun is out, and she warms my cherry blossom latte. She is radiant but flimsy because it’s spring, and she has no qualms about abandoning us. I promise you, though, that it’s quite alright—Providence is a city of stars, and we twinkle regardless. 

I don’t think anyone’s surprised when I tell them I loved getting gold stars in class when I was a child, but only you and I know that stars are my favourite thing to draw. You knew me when I would play with bubbles and fill the margins of my notebooks with structures made of two opposite overlapping triangles. You witnessed my transition to five-pointed stars as lopsided as the curls in my hair, and we listened to SOUR together, full of unknown angst, as my stars became more perfect and symmetrical with the steadiness of my hand. Now you’re thousands of miles away, and you can’t possibly see when I find yellow and pink stars scrawled on the sidewalks of Providence, and I secretly forgive the sun for leaving me, because at least she’s travelling to the tropics, special for you. The shadows of shade curl around my feet with unkept promises, but that cinnamon-scented cafe downtown has a blackboard where children play with chalk, and I drew twin stars, just like those on the kites in the lounge, just for us. 

Sunshine and rainbows were suspended in the air again, but they were gone within a few hours. But there are hand-drawn stars etched on whispering whiteboards and time-tested bricks and the illos I make for post-, and they fill me with sparkle anew. It’s 10:45 p.m. here, and the stars are still shining: Good morning! Can I call you? 

a sweet return

by Gabrielle Yuan

I’ve recently been spending time with someone who was muddled but emerged from the interworking of many mutual friends. It’s unfamiliar, even to myself, that only after a month of getting to know her completely on her own, I told her her eyes reminded me of Cadbury eggs (unromantic and unironic), further detailing that they were specifically the indulgent caramel-filled ones that feel neverending with each bite. I was even more taken aback when my palms didn’t clam up when we held hands for the first time, or, when the wind took complete liberty over my slightly too short, uneven bangs, I had the same strength and desire to look still into her round eyes to comb her own mane out of the way. As someone deeply unable, despite many attempts, to detach from the nuances of fulfilling social cues, consistently finding ways to avoid awkward silences through endless questions, those very same questions hold a new weight when positioned at her. They’re somehow lighter, like an airy minty breath, and I’m brave enough to hold onto even less to her. The notion of return is strong, the fear barely present. 

furry encounters

by Elaina Bayard

A few weekends ago I was in Boston. There had been a confluence of events: A high-school friend was visiting her boyfriend in the city, another high-school friend was driving up from New York with his partner, and I was free for the first time in forever. So we all gathered. And none of us, apparently, thought to check the weather.

We huddled together in the Boston Common: gloomy, gray sky; biting winds; an unwillingness to open our wallets and take refuge in a Caffè Nero. The sun-adorned cardigan I was wearing felt particularly cruel.

Then, in our faltering, cold conversation, one of us said, “Huh?” We followed the guiding finger, and huh indeed. A squirrel. Without his tail. When he bounded across the grass, it seemed like an animation glitch, the smooth wave stopping early. He seemed ignorant to our enchantment, happily journeying up and down trees. 

Eventually the wind returned and we caved to the allure of a warm drink, but, briefly, we’d been so amused that everything else fell away.

onto to the next step

by Hallel Abrams Gerber

I spent the majority of last week running the length of Hope Street in the dark. Moving from meals with home-people to my dorm and piles of work, I found myself deliriously making rhythms out of the bricks.

When I was a child, I spent every car ride as if I were in a video game, peering out the window and using my eyeline to construct an imaginary avatar jumping from building to building as we drove past. I have since become more focused on the road in front of me, trying not to hit anyone, rather than looking at the scenes passing me by.

But something about last week brought me back to that game: an ordering of tasks, an intrinsic silliness, even my own created sound effects, as I moved without thinking twice. In the midst of midterms and papers and many mini-worries, I was alone and skipping, replaying a role with no responsibilities.

forever a theater kid

by Jessica Lee

Every time I make the trip to New York, I’m reminded of my deep musical theatre roots. Since theatre doesn’t play a role in any of my current studies or extracurriculars, it often becomes a distant part of my past, a long-lost dream. I forget the extent of how much joy it brings me until I’m sitting in a Broadway theatre, watching the house lights dim, and enjoying the hush of the crowd as the overture begins to play. From that moment on, I am completely enthralled and nothing else matters. For two hours, I don’t check a single notification, my mind doesn't wander, and I am more present and focused than I could ever dream of being in any lecture or class. It’s partly out of love for the art form itself, partly out of love and respect for the performers. I love watching the little moments onstage when the actors try to make each other break or sneak in an unchoregraphed 8-count of their choosing. I love squinting through the darkness or peeking into the wings to watch the sets changing and props moving. I love noticing every detail I can. For two hours, I’m completely transported to another world. And for the many hours that follow, my own world becomes filled with new harmonies.

unbound love

by Chloe Costa Baker

Picture us at the Hope High School playground, late one night. The Nelson is closed and I am here with my partner, fending off a depressive episode with exercise, or something. Out on the football field, sprinklers slowly intersect like security guards’ flashlight beams.

Every surface is dappled with raindrops—swing seats, bench tops, pull-up bars—but I don’t particularly care if my three-year-old Uniqlo shoulder bag gets wet. As I go to set it down, something under the bench catches my eye, dimly in the lamplight. I’m not wearing my contacts, but I know immediately that it’s a book. It’s kind of the quintessential image of one: blue cover, white pages, clothbound. No gaudy jacket or commercial text. A simple icon, sprouted like a fungus in the wild. When I pick it up, I find it completely dry.

There is a compass icon lightly embellished on the cover and a three-word name on the spine. Inside, photos and writings from family, friends, and loved ones abound. It is a celebration of the life of this man who apparently died in February of 2025—he would have been three years younger than my parents. According to the opening pages, a memorial event took place April 10, 2025, just over a year ago. But the book is pristine. The book lives.

I feel like crying in a different way than before: sad in a full way, rather than the emptiness of depression—emotions gently watercolored, not carved in black and white. Glancing across the field at the castle-like edifice of Hope, I glimpse what appears to be a stained glass window in its topmost turret. Unexpected for a high school building—I can’t quite tell if it’s real or a trick of the light. My partner says he sees it too. To my eye, it’s just a blurry beacon of impossible orange, purple, and blue.

you’ve got mail

by AJ Wu

This semester has come with few surprises. Most of my days are blocked in similar colors and proportions on my GCal and I’m hesitant that, if dealt a Groundhog Day scenario, I would be able to recognize it in fewer than three days. Not to say that I’m discontent—it’s a happy sort of monotony, I think. A good routine. The other day, I checked my mail and found a postcard in it from a childhood friend studying abroad. She had sent it a while ago, but I had neglected my Page-Robinson mailbox for a few weeks and it was a bright surprise in the middle of the afternoon. On the front, she had painted a swan she saw recently in a park. I miss you! And God, did I miss her too. It’s funny how fast we can become acclimated to most things. Distance is practiced, becomes routine, and suddenly it’s been months since I’ve had a conversation with someone who used to be the center of my life. I called my friend and tried to lose track of time.