The impatient sun seeps through my half-opened eyelids. They flutter in disagreement, and I swing a bolster over my face, half breathing and negotiating between space and heat. My arms are curved in a way that my palms touch the back of my head, and my right leg forms a ninety degree under a specially picked-out blanket. I wake with a heaviness in my head which resounds a foreboding message I refuse to accept: that this room we call my bedroom, is no longer mine.
Here, my feet squeaks along the dust-free steps, in a space that is growingly vacuous. Instead, I think about the hue of blue— her blinds, the boyish walls, the chequered sea where our bodies press for warmth. Things, are everywhere. I am almost certain that the box of ice-cream we chucked in the freezer will remain in there for the next six months. I will tread cautiously when I fill up her mug or bottle with water, hoping I don’t catch sight of an ungodly creature, hissing behind my back or above me. These things are in abundance, and they have surpassed its time, or decay in use, and yet, my name isn’t on any of them.
Neither are they, in the shared compartments of this family house. I have erased all traces from the blaring night TV, the dinner table, the couch we ceremoniously picked in IKEA, even and especially the kitchen counter where I still stumble awkwardly if my father was there, pouring a glass of water, in my way.
I am then, an interim— the space itself, defined by the distance between my desires and hers, or the words that surround me, alone. I find abode the moment my car keys rattle in the morning, a familiar voice on the podcast narrating a brand new episode, the cafe counter piled with books and bags and free-flow cappuccino, the gritty 17 floor-elevator, hurrying past the living hall— the lights are still turned on from before, beep the air-condition says, and I plonk myself into the deep sea with my arms flung completely, and my fingers move in unison as if to say, come here.