I distinctly remember the first Saturday night of my sophomore year. I was laying on the floor of my dorm room as the noise from raucous groups of kids walking Uptown toward whatever the night held seeped in through the open windows. I called my dad, tears rolling down my face. “This is going to be the same as last year,” I rushed to say as soon as he picked up. “I’m miserable.” After a first year filled with solo Netflix nights and enough studying to carry me through the rest of undergrad, I was terrified that the fact I didn’t have plans or friends to hang out with the first weekend back meant I was in for another lonely year.