Written

I dread what it is I will find upon opening the door to our shared apartment. Will Jordan still be within the walls? Will Echo be tangled beneath the sheets in a bed shared with Jordan? Or will the night have ended poorly, and I find Echo alone—miserable? There's only one way to know, I think, unlocking the door before slowly pushing it open.

Stepping over the threshold I find nothing out of the ordinary. No extra pair of shoes by the door, or unknown coat hanging in the closet. Echo is placed at the breakfast bar with a mini easel and canvas. He has his headphones on, bobbing his head in tune with the music as his hand moves the brush around the canvas in all the right places with all the right colors.

I allow a sigh to pass before turning to hide away in my bedroom. At least inside that disaster my mind is so overwhelmed with everything going on inside the small room that I will not have time to think about the boy sitting just outside my door. Nor will I have time to remember my jealousy toward his ever-growing artistic talents. My room, my chaos, my disaster—my place to safely write. My own place to be whoever I choose to be, and do whatever my heart desires. My room is me, and everything that is me is my room. That is what makes up the beautiful disaster that has become my resting place.

I place myself at my desk, allowing my computer to awaken before opening a new document in Microsoft Word. I let all my emotions type themselves out, stringing letters together to form sentences. Everything flowing together in perfect harmony. The rhythm set perfect for even spoken works performed at coffee houses across the nation. This piece quickly turning to be my most favorite work, and so little thought had gone into it as it had written itself.