Room, just for me

I think about the kind of room I would have.

A small one. Just enough for me.

There would be a window that lets in light in a softer way. Not harsh, not blinding. Just enough to tell me that the day has started.

The kind of light that doesn't demand anything from me.

I think the weather there would feel gentle too.

A kind of warmth that reminds me of beaches I haven't seen yet. The kind that makes me want to wear the clothes I've always imagined myself wearing, without thinking too much about how I look or who might see me.

The room wouldn't be perfect, but it would be mine.

There would be small sections of it dedicated to different versions of me.

Maybe a shelf filled with books I haven't read yet.

A section of clothes that remind me of who I used to be back home.

A drawer filled with candies I wasn't allowed to have as a child because my throat was too sensitive.

And another drawer filled with things I've always wanted to try.

Candle making.

Card making.

Sketching.

Little attempts at creating something.

Little reminders that I'm allowed to try things just because I want to.

I think it wouldn't just be the room.

It would be the life around it too.

A small city where everything feels close enough.

Where I could get anywhere with a short bicycle ride.

Where mornings feel slow enough for me to wake up, step out, and go for a small run to pick up groceries.

Just enough for one.

To come back, cook for myself, and not have to worry about whether it's enough to feed a family.

Just enough to take care of myself.

I think I would have people there too.

People I choose.

A kind of new family I can call whenever I want to feel less alone.

And at the same time, the freedom to be by myself whenever I need to.

A life where both of those things can exist without feeling like a conflict.

The room would still be small.

Just enough space to lie down and read.

Or to cry without worrying about being too loud.

Just enough space to hold who I am, and who I am becoming.

All of it.

I think sometimes I would still feel lonely.

But I wonder if that loneliness would feel the same.

Or if it would be softer.

If it would feel different from the kind of sadness that comes from not having any space for yourself at all.

—

In the evenings, I think I would step out for coffee.

Nothing big. Just a small walk. Watching people, maybe talking to someone who has a dog, wondering if one day I'll have enough space in my life to take care of another being.

And slowly, through all of this, I think I would notice something I haven't felt in a while.

Peace.

Not the kind that comes from everything being perfect.

But the kind where my breath feels lighter.

Where I'm not constantly aware of the weight of existing.

Where there's a small skip in my walk, a softness in how I talk, a quiet kind of happiness that isn't trying too hard to prove itself.

At night, I would leave the window open.

Let the breeze come in.

Sit for a while, maybe look at the moon.

And wonder, briefly, if life is meant to be bigger than this.

Or if this is enough.

Some nights I would keep the window open and fall asleep like that.

Other nights, I'd close it, switch on the AC, and watch the same shows I've always watched. The ones that make me cry a little and feel held at the same time.

And somehow, even that would feel okay.

Because I think I would be happier there.