I’ll miss the swarms of red, yellow and black splashed across hoodies, hats and sweatpants on the way to class, a not-so-subtle reminder that I attend the University of Maryland.

I’ll miss yelling the occasionally expletive-filled insults to the opposing team at football games.

And I’ll miss the smell of freshly cooked dining hall food, especially when I walked nearly a mile to get the closest thing to the college version of Michelin-star dining. Shoutout Yahentamitsi Dining Hall.

I won’t forget the electric scooter handlebar bell’s threatening ring as it sped past me on the way to exams, or the alarm test that pierced the air at exactly 11:55 a.m. on the first Wednesday of every month.

And I won’t forget the Shuttle-UM buses, delayed, absent or skidding by, barely audible over the nonstop Purple Line construction noise.

I’ll miss it all.

After years of cramming myself into a shoebox-sized room with a roommate or two, I learned to find solace in the little things. On a campus of 40,000 people or more, the chaos and comfort sticks. I can’t help but let them stain my memory for as long as I can.

I hope they stain forever.

It all forms a messy, beautiful puzzle of invaluable joy from four short years — memories that I’m begging myself never to forget.

I don’t want to let go of the little, seemingly annoying things, not because they’ll add flair to the stories I’ll tell my kids one day, but because they’re charmingly tied to the people I love most.

The Maryland merch reminds me of my roommate and the black “UMD” sweatshirt she wore constantly, the aggressive chants of “Fuck Penn State” from high school friends I traveled to college with and the  shared dining hall meals with my sophomore-year roommates, some of whom now share an ‘1106’ tattoo with me on our right arms, permanently marking the time we spent in our Charles Hall suite.

Every part of these four years, the good, bad and ugly, is balanced with a delicate memory, and every memory is tied to someone I love, on a campus I’m heartbroken to leave.

Among those memories are the softer ones, the ones from McKeldin Mall, the heart of our campus.

We chased 70-degree days in shorts and tank tops, laughter carried on the breeze.

We stretched out on itchy grass that pokes through carefully-placed blankets, surrounded by lovers, friends, foes and even past versions of ourselves. Most wear headphones, but somehow it always feels like we’re listening to the same playlist.

Even beyond the evergreen friendships and mall grass, I found a quiet connection on the benches at the Memorial Chapel, shaded by a sweeping willow tree.

Beneath each bench are handheld journals filled with pages of thoughts from people I may never meet.

I wrote in nearly every journal and found comfort in that shared, anonymous space. I read about someone’s failed exam and about breakups that shattered someone’s world, and the hopeful words they left behind for an ex.

There was community, unspoken but deeply felt.

Being a senior feels a lot like the bridge in “Ribs” by Lorde, like the fleeting breeze that brushes across scattered blankets on McKeldin Mall, like the blur of faces you pass every day on a commute to class.

And suddenly you realize you’ll never see them again.

Being a senior feels terrifying, but this university is a forever kind of home. It’s not just the basketball games, tailgates or the matching Terrapin Red jerseys that keep us connected.

It’s the quiet moments, when time slows down and everyone shares a slice of their world.

That’s what makes this place worth remembering. That’s what makes it worth shedding a tear over when I toss my cap in the air.

And for everyone walking the stage: slow down, appreciate the beautiful chaos of it all. Let it stain your memory, too.