I never had to say goodbye to the family dog.

It seems small, but it’s something many college students must face. And I never had to.

I never had to leave the place I grew up, either. I never went too long without a home-cooked meal. Never had a roommate horror story, never had to brave my way through a run-down freshman dorm.

But I also never went through sorority recruitment. I never stuck around campus long enough to attend any club meetings. I never really made any close friends.

I’m a commuter student, though it feels more accurate to call me a ghost — meandering in and out of campus, speaking only a few words. It’s a weird feeling, looking around to see that everyone’s already situated in their social circles, and you’re just … there.

Though I’ve been here for the last four years of my life, sometimes it still feels like I’m intruding. I’m convinced someone is still going to tap me on the shoulder and ask if I even go here.

With my childhood home situated a mere 20 minutes from campus, I made the decision early on to be a commuter student. My faithful chariot is a Ford Focus nicknamed the “Champagne Sensation” for its unsightly gold paint. Parking is a pain, but any bystander — Chapman student or not — who has seen the Lastinger lot at 10 a.m. could tell you that.

There are a lot of other things that define the commuter experience: counting backwards from class times to schedule your commute, only signing up for classes on specific days to maximize your campus time, feeling like an aimless nomad wandering the great plains when you have more than a two hour break between classes. 

Don't just take my word for it. A lot of us feel this way. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just … different. 

I once passed a boy my age on the 55 freeway. His eyes were on the road, but a notebook was propped up on his steering wheel, and during the lulls of the morning traffic he would glance down at his notes. Desperate for connection, I wondered if he, too, was commuting to a faraway place.

I wanted to ask if he was tired of living this double life.

In a way, though, I’m grateful for the commute. Never have I spent so much time with myself before, and I truly feel it’s made me more comfortable in who I am.

I’ll always remember driving through the tunnel of lilac trees along Glassell in the spring. I’ll cherish the hours spent in the Circle killing time between classes and watching week after week as flowers bloomed along the sidewalks, heralding the return of warmer days.

The rainy season in winter featured some of the most strangely beautiful commutes. Nothing matched the satisfaction of cranking the heat in the car after escaping from the crisp air outside. I reveled in the way the street lights titillated across the droplets on my windshield, like stars in a slate blue sky.

But autumn was always my favorite: a tapestry of orange and yellow, a perpetual sunset in the trees. That time of year, the sun would dip perfectly behind West Sycamore Avenue, and I would be content to watch it, even if it meant my commute home would be just a little darker.

It’s my last semester here. I wonder what I’ll think in May. Will I mourn what I did, or what I didn’t? Will it even feel like leaving, or of never returning?

Am I destined to be a ghost, leaving no trace except for a byline in the school newspaper?

These aren’t strictly commuter thoughts, though. I think every college student wonders this at least once.

As for me, I learned to make friends despite the perceived distance, and to involve myself in campus life despite the scheduling struggles. The college experience is truly what you make it. Mine just happened to be perfumed by jasmine air fresheners and stained with vanilla almond milk lattes that spilled on the way and never quite dried right.

Besides, I should call myself lucky.

I got to do my homework cuddled up with the family dog.