I was in class. I don't remember exactly which one; it was one of the ones that you have to take not because the subject interests you or because you believe that it will help you in your future, but because its a prerequisite.
The instructor came in late; she wasn't organized like she normally was. She was clutching her books and some loose papers to her chest, bag sliding off her shoulder and car keys still grasped in her right hand.
"That plane crash in New York... It doesn't look good."
We had class as normal and there wasn't any more discussion about what was going on. I didn't think too much of it at the time. Planes go up, and sometimes when they come back down shit happens. But when I left class you could tell something serious was going on. People weren't milling around as usual. They all seemed like they had somewhere to go and had to get there quick.
It was my last class of the morning so I went back to my apartment. My radio had been stolen from my car, so I couldn't listen to what was going on while I drove.
When I entered the apartment my roommate, Carl, was watching the news. The towers were both smoking at this point. After a minute, when it had sunk in fully, I turned to Carl and said,
"We're at war."
Some people seem to have forgotten this.