Poem by Nicholas Sawyer

By Julia Catalano

In three years, when we’re at Syracuse and forced to say goodbye again, the concerts will be canceled. But we don’t know this yet.

By Giovanna Veiga

“I miss you too,” I say to an empty room. But if I reach, out I can feel the scruff lining his jaw, the dip in his chin, the crease at the tip of his nose, all my favorite parts of him.

By Nina Piazza

By Shiharu Yamashita

We’ve had this conversation before—about Halsey Middle School, about how I’m not Korean—but really I wonder if she has any relatives and is lonely.

By Kate Brennan

In six hours, this same sun will wash over balconies and iron tables for coffee cups, ashtrays, and croissant flakes to bake in its warmth.