It is around midnight, and I am taking one of my semi-annual too-stressed-to-sit-still walks around campus. These walks are rare, but they’re a vital pressure-relief valve that I developed freshman year. Depending on what time of the semester it is when proverbial things hit proverbial fans, I might run into a few haggard-looking people headed out of the library, or a cluster of drunk friends navigating back towards home. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, it is like tonight – that kind of enveloping darkness that comes from the knowledge that no one else is out, that I’ve got every curve of the sidewalk to myself. I let go of conscious direction. A string of lamplights pulls me across campus, toward my memories of every building and path – from Galloway to the Houses to the space where the Quad now sits. I think of what was there before it was new, before it was even a hole in the ground, to when I circled a different building and left pecan-studded footprints, now buried beneath glass and concrete. 

Taking a walk for nostalgia’s sake lets me pretend for a few moments that I’m not using my body to escape my work. I meander, deciding on a whim between left and right, forward or backward, standing still to breathe in the deep night. The air smells of rain, and I wait for drops to start beading on my shirt before I can move again. I almost turn back toward my apartment but decide to soak a while. There’s nothing good waiting for me at home. Another lap will do. Swirling in these thoughts, I almost don’t catch the sound over the rain pelting leaves and windows and puddles from the day before. But it comes again, louder, more demanding this time: a mewing voice shoves its way through all the rest. I know I’m in Ella’s territory now, but I so rarely run into her this late that I am surprised to see her emerge from behind her bushes and walk right up to me. She trots with such purpose that I almost expect a finally, you’re here as she leaps up onto the ledge of a lamppost. There’s no denying a request like that, so I follow her over and give her the attention she’s so willing to soak up any time of day. The rain hasn’t let up; we’re both drenched. I smooth out her wet fur one last time and start in the opposite direction. 

I make it around to the other side of the building when that mewing breaks out once more. I turn around, and there’s Ella, in a near full gallop towards me. I do a doubletake and stop where I am – my relationship to the campus cats until now has been a casual pet or treat while on my way to something else. Never has my presence been downright insisted by the queen herself. In a moment, she’s perched on another lamppost, flicking her tail back and forth while she scolds me for walking away. She presses her soft face deep into my now-outstretched palm. She must know I’m confused, because she looks up at me and tilts her head: what, you thought you were alone out here? Please. She rubs against my hand again, but keeps turning up to look at me, a pair of yellow-green eyes keeping careful watch, holding me in place. 

I survey the scene for a moment. Not a spot on either of us is dry. The lamplight hovering above us is the only thing cutting through the rainclouds’ ink. Before I have time to worry about just how hard it’s raining, I am sitting on the ground. Ella finally seems satisfied with me as she climbs into my lap – took you long enough. No matter how unlikely it is that every other person on a college campus is asleep at any given moment, it feels just like that: like everyone else is dreaming, and I am walking in the shadows between them, and Ella has shown up right on time to keep me from getting lost in the rain on a starless night. 

Spring 2021