Room of my past

I didn’t recognise it at first. It appeared smaller than it should have, like something I’d grown out of without noticing. The air stayed the same. Faintly sweet, a little dusty, the kind of smell that sits at the back of your throat. Everything was where it belonged; untouched, unchanged. I stood in the doorway for a moment, not moving, just looking. My chest felt tight, and my hands curled at my sides, uncertain. A shaky breath slipped out, part anticipation, part fear, as if the old feeling of the room might overwhelm me if I let it. It felt as though if I stepped inside too quickly, it might stop being real.

I scanned over the room. My old posters curled at the corners, the desk was scratched and scribbled on, and the same unfinished drawing was left where I must have abandoned it. The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling still glowed.

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I hadn’t been here in years. Not really. Yet here I was, standing in a room where I knew which floorboards would creak before I stepped on them.

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And then I saw her. Small, young, naive. She sat on the bed’s edge, legs swaying as if she couldn’t sit still. Her hair was unevenly tied, like mine used to be when I didn’t care whether it was perfect or not. She looked at me properly - no hesitation, as if she’d never learned to hold anything back. Her eyes were filled with hope I hadn’t felt in a long time.

She smiled; it all came at once. Wide, certain. Imperfection in her teeth and lips that she didn’t even think about before showing. A kind smile. For a second, I couldn’t place her. I think that was the worst part.

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“Hi,” she said, like she’d been expecting me. I didn’t answer straight away. My voice felt like something I had to remember how to use.

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“Hi,” I replied eventually.

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She tilted her head slightly, studying me in a way that should have felt strange, but didn’t.

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“Are you lost?” Her question caught me off guard. I almost laughed, but it didn’t quite come out properly.

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“I don’t think so.”

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She frowned, just a little.

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“You look like you’re lost.”

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I glanced around the room again, at things that should have felt familiar. It was like looking at something through glass, close enough to recognise but too far to reach.

She slid off the bed and took a few steps closer. Her eyes were bluer than mine were now. They held more confidence than I did.

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She glanced at the desk.

“Do we still draw?” she asked. My eyes moved, without thinking, to the paper, still there, lines unfinished, frozen mid-thought. I couldn’t make out what it was meant to be.

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“I…” I hesitated. “Not really.”

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“Oh.” She didn’t sound angry. Just… surprised. “Why not?”

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I didn’t have an answer for her that made sense out loud or didn’t sound like an excuse.

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“I don’t know.” Guilt hit. She loved to draw, sing, express herself, and I had no way to tell her she’d gone. That I’d forgotten her.

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“But you liked it.” She looked at me as though she couldn’t believe what I was saying.

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“I know.” I tried to keep my tone soft.

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She was quiet for a moment, then: “Are we… happy?”

The question sat between us, heavier than anything she had already said. Heavier than anything I could say. I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

I didn’t move the way she did. Even standing there, I could feel it. something restless and sharp settling into my chest. Not calm, not really. Just… still. Like I’d learned somewhere along the way to hold myself differently. My shoulders didn’t quite drop; my muscles hovered, ready, tense. My breath stayed shallow. I seemed to expect something without knowing what.

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I don’t remember when I became tired, when my shoulders learned to stay stiff, when I started to hate my smile, or when I stopped meeting people’s eyes. And here she was: this little girl, more mature and confident than I had been in a long time.

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She was still looking at me, waiting.

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“You used to smile more,” she said, like she was trying to help. “You used to laugh more.”

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I swallowed, but it didn’t fix anything. I forced a half smile.

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“I know.”

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She stepped back slightly then. I felt her eyes see me properly for the first time since I walked into her room. Into our room.

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“You don’t feel like me.” Her expression changed. Her smile faded slowly, as if interrupted. She studied me, searching for answers I didn’t have.

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“I thought it would be different.” I wasn’t sure which one of us had said it.

My eyes drifted back to the desk. She followed, reached past me, and picked up the drawing like it still mattered. It wasn’t random. It was a face - mine, I think. Or something close to it. The outline was there, but it stopped halfway through, around the eyes.

She held it out to me.

“You didn’t finish it,” she said quietly. “You can, though.”

I took it from her, more carefully than I expected to.

“I never get the eyes right,” she added.

My thumb hovered where they should have been, like I might remember how to draw them if I waited long enough.

I didn’t. But for a moment, just a moment, I thought maybe I could.

I looked around the room again. It still felt like hers, just not mine.

People always said it would come with time. That things would settle, that I’d understand more, that I’d grow into myself.

But she already did.

I had let that go, somewhere along the way. She radiated possibility, but I carried the weight of everything that had already happened.

It was the first time I had truly faced who I had become.

I wasn’t sure what to do with that.

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When I looked back, she was gone. The room stayed for a moment longer. It was quiet. Like it had been waiting to see if I’d say something, do something, fix something.

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I didn’t.

I placed the paper back where she had found it.

Then I turned away and left.