Sitting in a crowded auditorium, I scan the faces of eager college students, each talking with a newfound friend. It was my first day at NYU, and I was already behind. Only thirty minutes earlier, I had been saying goodbye to my parents—yet suddenly, I found myself in a world of forgotten introductions and nervous hellos, talk of internships and school papers, and discussions about which concerts were open to 18+.

Recently, everything has been going by faster. My gap semester lasted just long enough to make new friends to lose, move-in week barely gave me enough time to put up my posters, and I don’t even remember the flight to New York. But nothing has been slower than an hour of orientation while I worried about how I was going to make friends.

Luckily, while surveying the post-presentation taco line, a girl came up to compliment my jacket. Not willing to miss my chance for a friend (or stand in the growing line behind her), I stood with her to get our food and miraculously ended up in a group I had envied minutes earlier.

That night, I went to dinner with a miscellaneous group of cool-looking people from the Liberal Studies program, and after I remarked that I had never ridden the subway, we went on an adventure to Grand Central Station. Standing in the near-empty terminal, I wondered how I could ever have a better night than that one.

We’ve been together ever since, that group and I, and somehow have managed to top that first night many times over. My life is studying in the coffee shop, seeing friends on the street, and sleeping in a shoebox. It’s playing guitar in our dorms, singing along to In the Aeroplane Over the Sea and screaming, “How strange it is to be anything at all.” In my classes, I learn about philosophy and religion; I listen to dozens of people tell me dozens of versions of how to live a good life. I think, reading Aristotle and Homer, overlooking Washington Square Park—maybe I’m already living it.

There are still a million things I miss about Colorado. I miss living with my parents—coming home to a place where I know I’m loved. I miss playing rummy with my mom and driving with my dad, listening to music with my sister, and talking with my brother. I miss the sky. Even on cloudless days, the buildings cover the sun, and the bright lights of the city don’t have the same charm as the stars.

My dorm has one window, facing more windows, and the tiniest glimpse of a church steeple to the east. When it's quiet, once in a blue moon, I can hear the bells chime. My furniture is all the same shade of tan wood, my walls dusty and cracked from the adhesive of a hundred other students’ posters. There are shoes strewn about in the entryway—slippers, sneakers, and boots to trip over as I make my way to a matchbox bed. But I can’t help thinking, as I listen to the sirens and the joyful screams of students on their way home from parties, that I may live in paradise.