The room I’m asked to stay in for the night seems too gentle and homey. It’s small, but filled with things that fills the need of anything I require. A dresser placed to my right, a small closet on the left. The comfortable looking full size bed fills a large portion of the room, it’s covers are fluffy and I feel like resting forever on top of them, or wrapping myself up to keep warm against any cold. The walls are painted light blue like the afternoon sky, even though it’s night.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like home.
But it’s not. It’s just a guest room. It’s a place for people like me who are passing through. Nothing about it, is supposed to be permanent.