The door, always closed, is white and covered with the stickers I’ve accumulated throughout my 13 years of living there. Inside, the room holds way more furniture than it was meant to, all squished together only inches between them. The ceiling is lined with the Christmas lights I used to pretend were stars and serve as the only working light source in the room. Over the years, there have been few constants. The pink and white flower rug, the short pink bookcase my mother painted and the pink letters above the window spelling out my name remain as reminders of the first phase of my life experienced in the room, my first obsession, pink. A tall, broken white bookshelf holds a multitude of books belonging to a reader that can’t read anymore, including the Twilight series representing a past obsession and Marvel action figures and The Walking Dead Funko Pops representing more recent ones. A long sign reading ‘NEW YORK’ hangs above the bed to remind me of my middle school mesmerization with the city. The dozens of posters and pictures adorning the walls are ever changing, always falling and don’t last long, but the tiny staple holes in the wall and chipped paint are evidence of them having been there.The desk is wooden, small, square and has endured a lot of abuse since it’s been gifted to me. The desk is decorated in pen, pencil, sharpie and marker as I have written my favorite quotes from books and movies on it. I have carved my initials into the wood, painted my name on it in white out, and dripped nail polish on it for several years now. The desk is decorated in pen, pencil, sharpie and marker as I have written my favorite quotes from books and movies on it. The room doesn’t have a single empty space, as practically every inch has been claimed by random treasures rescued from thrift shops and impulse purchases that have no real purpose aside from being aesthetically pleasing. My family jokes that if they wanted to know what I thought or what I cared about, all they would have to do is stand in my room and look at the walls. For all the stuff I’ve crammed into it and the countless hours I’ve spent hidden away in there, the room has become an outward representation of my brain.