The room smells of dust and memories. Looking at it through its eight feet entrance, I try remembering home in it. Purple curtains and the table by its side. Walls with posters; walls with paintings. I lightly swing my torso backwards, resting pale knuckles with a single ring on the mahogany frame as I see the reflection of emptiness echoing back at me. I’m not sure if it’s the silence that makes my heartbeat so audible or the silence within. Leaving my imprint on the door, I walk in with the company of wheels rolling by my side. The fans wake up with a creaking I’m glad to hear. I sit down cross legged on the unfamiliar mattress with the familiar bed sheet of pearl with red roses. Pulling my knees close to my chest, I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing only to juggle chirping, creaking and dry gulps. There’s a buzz that breaks me from the silent chaos as I’m notified of a message.
The treasures of my cupboard are sprawled around me as I sit cross legged in between them all, rummaging fondly through the old box of black with patterns of bronze. It’s a typical summer afternoon along the coast with the humidity dripping along the tattooed nape of my neck as the chocolate fan tries flirting with my chocolate curls tied up in a messy bun with some of the shorter ones spilling loose from the bondage. I come across a string of pearls in a transparent packet that I never wore; something that I always wanted adorn my collarbones with. The string of pearls you’d gifted me. I take it out of its wrapping, gently wrapping it around my fingers as the reds of my nails bring out their white. It’s funny how it still manages to tint my cheeks with the shy pink, the same way it did that day as you took it out from the depths of your beige pockets and slid it along the green bench towards me. My heart still remembers the surprise it felt as it flutters even today, making me smile at the string of memories that flow in. Someone once rightly said that memories are like a box of sweets; you can’t just stop at one.