"Your twenties are about finding your soul."

-Oprah

The four of us strutted to the front of the line and flashed the bouncer our VIP passes with a smile of familiarity that he gladly returned. The accustomed feeling of the overwhelming bass hammered at our hearts and the ear-piercing beats silenced our laughs. We retreated to the same corner on the second floor of the club, ordering our favorite drinks at the bar on the way.

“To finally finishing residency!” Sam began our round of toasts with a Long Island Iced Tea in her hand.

“To finally moving out!” I added.

“To finally getting that promotion!” Mia hollered before chugging her entire shot of whiskey.

“To finally dumping Josh!”

The three of us threw our incredulous expressions at an already tipsy Clara, who just downed her fifth shot of vodka and slammed the shot glass on the table. She only offered a casual shrug accompanied by a flirtatious wink of her darkly drawn eyes and a challenging smirk on her plump lips. Typical Clara.

We all raised our eclectic glasses together while chanting a final, “To our ing thriving twenties!”

People always advised me to choose friends wisely in college, because friendships created in college were ones to be kept forever. I could proudly say that meeting these three was probably the luckiest part of my college career and fostering our friendships was perhaps one of the only logical decisions I made during those four years.

It became routine for us to celebrate our joys and sorrows at that specific table, and this time was no different. We all reached on different milestones in our respective lives ­– both big and small – and it was only customary to celebrate with a night of drinks and music.

With alcohol coursing through our veins, we piled onto the dance floor and danced as if we were in our teenage years again, as if we weren’t already readily embarking on the third decade in our lives. Grasping onto each other’s arms, we danced with no worries, no men, and no hardships on our minds – it was just the four of us against the ending night.

***

“Are you sure you don’t need our help packing, Soph?” I heard my mom’s voice yell from the first floor. She knew I always had problems with other people organizing my belongings, but she always had to make sure to offer help, as if I would blame her later on for neglecting her precious daughter again.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m almost done!”

As I approached my desk to pack files and office supplies, I paused, catching a glimpse of that window opposite mine. That dust-strained window that was a measly two feet away.

Fifteen years ago, when my parents told me that we were moving to another town in the suburbs, one that was just a bit closer to the city for my dad’s convenience, I didn