Suzanne’s room was much smaller than I’d expected, with a sloping ceiling and hanging fairy lights that made the whole room feel more like a fort. Almost every inch of the walls was covered not just with photos, like in my room, but with posters and magazine clippings and postcards and scraps of newspaper. Post-it notes were stuck haphazardly over the cracks between the paraphernalia, and when I looked closely I saw they each contained scribbles in Suzanne’s handwriting. Poetry, maybe? Song lyrics?
I love Suzanne's room. I could see it so clearly when I wrote this, and reading it brings it right back.
Eva and 3 other people liked this
