It’s quite a confusing feeling – this yearning to be back in Warwick, treading pavements to the Hearsall Common bus stop juxtaposed with my acceptance of the fact that life has moved on, ahead of my heart, and it’s not all bad.

I am eager to grow, yet I am desperate to go back.

I miss Warwick.

I miss having Matt Willis pace back and forth between my and Nat’s door, plucking Kungfu Panda on the guitar. I miss fish fingers at Jon’s. I miss running to the TES in the skimpiest dress imaginable in the dead of winter, flushed with alcohol and high on life.

I miss zigzagging between rehearsals, teaching people to sing, teaching myself to sing, savouring the sweet sweet sense of accomplishment knowing that I am immersing myself in all that I love – despite the sacrifice of relationships. I miss cooking tomyam fried rice, and chopping garlic and spring onions and carrots and breaking eggs in our oblong spacious kitchen, with Jo pacing in and out, Frankie washing something, and Arthur leaping into the kitchen in his leather coat, all glistening and shining from the deliriousness of dance.

I miss library times. I miss staring at Finance in frustration. I miss crying over having to juggle too many things at once, and then coming to terms with it and realising that I have grown stronger. I miss snow, and the whiteness of Hearsall Common, and knowing that when life gets a bit tough, sights like that will touch your heart just that little bit, and you suddenly feel a lot better.

I miss the feeling at the end of third year. At graduation. Walking onstage, triumphant and aglow from the fact that I’ve just sung with the Chamber Choir at my own graduation, knowing that university couldn’t have ended any better than it did.

That I know the best 3 years of my life was spent singing and dancing to life, sometimes intoxicated, and doing things and meeting people I will treasure forever.

I guess it’s time to move on. If only I knew how to get over that little bit of lingering sadness.