Ember

This poem reflects the strange, unsettling feeling of returning to university for the final year—how familiar everything is, yet how sharply the fear of endings and beginnings can rise. It captures that surreal sense that the first move‑in wasn’t years ago, but only moments, and the quiet courage it takes to step into the last chapter.

I’m returning to a place I should know by heart,
yet it greets me like a stranger—
quietly asking who I’ve become
since the first time I crossed its threshold.

Final year looms like a tall, bright gate,
and I’m standing here unsure
whether I’m ready to walk through it
or still clinging to the years behind me.

It feels impossible that so much time has passed—
because in my mind, it was only last week
that I hauled my life into a bare new room,
nerves buzzing, hands shaking,
trying to pretend I wasn’t terrified.

I remember that first night too clearly:
the echo of an unfamiliar space,
the way the dark felt too big,
how I lay awake wondering
if I’d made a mistake.

Now I’m back, older in ways I didn’t notice happening,
but still scared in ways I recognise instantly.
Because endings are loud,
and beginnings never stop whispering.

I know the shortcuts now,
the faces, the rhythms, the comfort—
yet my chest still tightens
at the thought of everything left to do.

Final year feels like standing on a cliff edge:
wind in my hair, fear in my bones,
but a view too beautiful to turn away from.

Time has sprinted,
and somehow I’ve kept up.
So even if my heart trembles,
I’ll step into this last chapter—
not fearless, but willing.