I marveled at how easy it was for Ruthie to make friends—a handshake, a wave, a nod, that’s all it took for her to start a conversation. I was less jealous of her ease and more jealous of everyone else; the people who got to meet her. Because everyone immediately loved Ruthie.

But I loved her more.

That night, Ruthie and I were lying in our beds, relishing the dark silence that comes after a busy day. Curfew was midnight, but we had our lights out by 11:30 p.m. just in case. I was on my side, my back to the window in our newly feng shui-ed room, staring at the streak of light creeping in from under the door, unmoving, unrelenting.

I could see the lump of Ruthie’s body snug under her brand-new white floral duvet. She said she spent months picking it out—creating a vision board for what she wanted her college dorm to look like. The vibe she wanted to go for. I wondered if I fit that. If I was the roommate she expected. If me and my yellowed dresses and mismatched sheets and grease-stained hair were what she wanted. Or if I was the human version of my khakis, something she’d want to quickly swap out for something fancier.

“What do you want to do?” she whispered. I heard her sheets shuffle as she moved. “Like, with your life?”

I had no idea. I didn’t know how I fit into the real world—the world outside my parents’ house and our church. Up until today, I didn’t have a choice about what to do with the rest of my life. Once I turned eighteen, my parents would start looking for a husband for me. Once I was married, I’d become his wife. I’d do whatever he said. I had no idea who I was outside of that house. But I was excited to figure it out.

“What do you want to be?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t turn the question back around.

“I want to move to New York City—” she began. I could hear the awe in her voice. I imagined it sounded very similar to the way I talked about college. “Live in Soho or Greenwich Village in a tiny apartment where the shower is in the kitchen and just visit galleries and museums and art street fairs and go to the opera and see off-Broadway plays every single day.”

“That sounds amazing,” I said. I’d been so focused on getting here I hadn’t considered where I’d go or what I’d do after. Getting here was a feat in itself. I knew I wasn’t going home, but maybe Ruthie and I could go to New York City together. Maybe I could do those things with her.

“I don’t know what I want,” I admitted. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”