While trying to recover from the worst summer of my life, I went to my first day of a new theatre school - NYU Tisch's Playwrights Horizons. Within the first hour and a half we had heard that the towers had fallen and the pentagon had been hit. Our head of school went to find her kids. I helped a girl named Betty skip the line for the office phone to call her sister who worked in the south tower. I remembered the wedding reception I had just attended at Windows on the World and how the cast of RENT had sung so beautifully there and how the building swayed in the wind to their song. I remembered the 1993 bombing and was in denial. When I made it outside, the skyline had disappeared. I realized that what I had refused to believe at the onset of the day had come true. It could get worse. I walked 82 blocks home in my "cute first day of school outfit" and was sexually harassed by interns in an ambulance bay on the east side who weren't receiving any ambulances because mostly people were dead or being treated near the scene. I hated my vanity and my Manolo's that day. Air Force jets blew by overhead and when a car backfired, people hit the ground. The city was so quiet that the backfiring of a car sounded like a bomb not a gunshot. People were handing out water on the street but not on any of the blocks I walked. I was afraid for the people I had seen walking across the bridges. What if someone hit the bridges? When I got to my apartment there were at least 9 other people there, they couldn't get back to their dorms, the area had been cordoned off. First until Houston, then until 14th street. All of downtown was suspect. The news was devastating. Repetitive. The reporters' faces were tight with shock and anger. The next morning the city didn't just smell like dust and burning gas, it smelled like meat as well. I paid for everyone's breakfast because it was what my grandparents would do. We barely ate anything, it was hard to feel normal. I don't know if we feel normal yet today.