The room was dark, save for the faint glow of a candle sitting on the pale white desk in the corner of the nearly claustrophobic room. The burning candle wafted vanilla fragrance all through the room, covering up the faint mustiness of the tight space. Everything was completely silent at this time of night, with the exception of the faint hum of the air conditioning and the whisper of sound coming from the girl’s ear phones. While everyone else in the house was sound asleep, the girl was furiously typing away on her computer, rushing to get her idea down before it slipped away. This was typical for her, as she struggled to sleep when she was supposed to, taking naps from noon to six, before proceeding to stay awake all night, and would repeat the cycle again and again. In my years of knowing her, I knew she spent most of her time using writing as a way to release any emotions where she couldn’t be judged.

If you were to ask one of the girl’s family members, they would all say her bed was where she spent the majority of her time. Probably because that’s where she always is when they are awake, either sleeping or reading. The bed was white. And by was, I mean at one point in time, it was white, now it was a sort of cream shade from the nearly twenty years of use. Her bed stood on the shorter side, with just enough space under it to hold the matching trundle bed. While most beds with a trundle had another mattress underneath, this girl used it to store the clothes that weren’t in her current rotation, either not fitting her current style or the time of year. Her bed used to be right in the middle of my line of vision, before I was moved to my current location.

Just behind the girl sat a very standard looking vanity, but in reality, it was the place of some of the girl’s best memories. From the first time she got to play with makeup, to her first time texting a boy, the worn down vanity would always hold a special place in the girl’s heart. A stranger may not know the exact events that occurred at the table, but it was very clearly well loved, as seen by the chipped paint, nail polish stains, and sticky residue left behind by the tape that once held quotes and important dates. I may not have a clear view of it anymore, but I once called that vanity my home. 

If someone were to be looking at the room for the first time, their eye would probably be brought to the closet straight away. Let’s not kid ourselves and say its not because of the missing door because it totally is. Looking inside, each of the girl's different phases were obvious. The collection of black clothes and band tees were from her “people are poison” phase, the bunch of shirts stolen from both her father and older brothers from her “baggy is better” phase, and of course the obsessive amount of customized tee shirts hidden away in a box from her “know my name” phase. That was definitely her least worn collection. The furthest to the right and towards the back were dresses, compiled entirely of unworn, unneeded evening gowns. Why she had them, no one will ever know. From there, the dresses slowly got shorter, going through tea length, all the way to cocktail, and ranging in color, covering the entire rainbow. Eventually, after nearly dozens of dresses, came the shirts, so few they were truly laughable. As for bottoms, they were stored in dresser drawers, separated into different categories, including but not limited to: jeans, short, shorts that aren’t allowed in public unless she had a death wish, leggings, skirts, and of course, dance clothes that probably didn’t fit but she wouldn’t get rid of. On the previously mentioned top shelf, the girl kept everything she wanted to keep untouched and perfect. While trophies and crowns would be the first thing people notice on the shelf, they aren’t the most important. The most important were by far her books. Dozens of books stood on the shelf, organized by genre, then by height. If you remember anything about her, remember that this girl loved to read. Fantasy, sci-fi, fiction. You name it, she’s read it. But the one that she loved the most would forever remain a secret, I should know, I used to be the only one she talked to about it. 

Some might wonder why I spend so much time in her closet when there’s nothing interesting in there. Well, her closet shelf has been my home for the past three years, ever since she decided I was too embarrassing to be kept in public. My hair was hanging on by a very thin thread, my fingers and toes were so chipped that they were barely discernible from the rest of my arms and legs, and of course, there was the massive crack going through the center of my face, leaving a gaping hole towards the left side of my jaw. For these reasons and more, I understood why she kept me hidden away, and in the name of complete honesty,she still talked to me and made sure I was never lonely, no matter how much time I spent away from the judgement of others.