“Asking Stanford” is a series of small stories from Stanford students, each of which comes together to highlight the diversity of experiences and perspectives on campus.

The Axe & Palm — Sebastian Strawser

I’ll have another! That’s what I kept thinking to myself as I ordered ube milkshake after ube milkshake. While some people experience sugar highs, I was definitely on an ube high. There was no end goal to this. Nothing was getting in the way between my precious ube shakes and my stomach. You’ve been the perfect student long enough, Sebastian. Live a little! I was truly in the zone and enjoying myself. When it comes to that sense of joy that borders on euphoria, I had it that night. Digestive consequences aside, it was quite a lovely time.

Maples Pavillion — Charlotte Burks

My face buried into my friend’s shoulder, my words from only two hours prior rang in my ears: I’m not a basketball fan. So much for that. As the game point hung in the balance, my sanity seemed to hang with it. My heartbeat mirrored the beat of the ball being dribbled down the court. Two minutes and six points later, Stanford’s student section erupted in cheers as I faced the harsh lights of the stadium celebrating a home game victory. Walking through campus on a dark, rainy night, I felt nothing but a happy, radiating warmth — and the joy of knowing I’d be back in the student section soon.

Memorial Auditorium — Erin Ye

My hands were sweating and I wanted to quit, but thought it would be more dangerous to back down now than continue climbing up. I touched gravel and hauled myself up over the ladder. My friends were behind me, whispering and bickering. It was their idea to climb on the roof of MemAud on a summer midnight, but right then, it was just me and the dark. I walked up further toward the edge, approaching the sloping red tiles. I looked up, and from the top of one landmark I saw another: Hoover Tower, eye level with me, under the stars.

Green Library — Kaylee Chan

The messages scratched onto the desk ranged from the comforting to the confessional. One threw a vulnerable question into the void: “21 + never been kissed… will anyone ever love me?” In another, the void answered back: “yes, pinky promise :).” As I sat in Green Library, empty Word document at hand, my eyes kept straying to the scribbles of years past. How many were echoes of weeknights like mine, composed by students desperately chipping away at their work while huddled in wooden cubicles? “This too shall pass,” one read. The words reached out to anchor me as I drowned in the light of my laptop screen. I took a deep breath. This, too, shall pass.