A scarcely furbished room is warmed by the sun’s glow. The cool, borderline cold breeze is offset by thelight hitting her skin. The girl sets herself in front of a cardboard box. She begins arranging the things in an orderly fashion on the shelf to her left. She knows this organisation will only last so long, but at such times she finds herself to be a semi-perfectionist.

Some time passes before the cardboard box is empty. As a finishing touch she places a snow globe she received as Christmas present years ago on the first level of her shelf, her hands careful and delicate. More to the left. No, too left. Bit more to the right. There. In a couple of weeks I’ll forget all about this anyway she thinks to herself; a bittersweet smile inches across her face.

The silence which fills her room is rare. It is quiet but noisy. She hears the distant, short bursts of traffic outside, the wind strum through the mesh panel of her half-open window, the quiet creaks of the walls in her house. Her eyes wander from corner to corner, soaking in the details of the room. As minimal as it is, she finds a sense of affinity in it. Maybe it is this familiarity which conjures up feelings of nostalgia in her.

She reaches towards a particular notebook. As she flips through the pages, her face subtly twists in amusement and surprise. She finds that the same things offended her back then as they do now, the same things frustrated her back then as they do now, and she never did or will stop overanalysing things to her heart’s content. Her eyes halt at a certain line. It’s written clumsily, as if the writer were in a rush, but large and clear, as if in anticipation of audience. “You are all different but the same”. One can find solace in this idea. We need not think of others or ourselves as enemies but rather comrades. Even when we outgrow our clothes, outgrow our personalities, we are probably not much different to others or the past versions of ourselves.

Her pondering is interrupted by the sound of keys clashing against a countertop. Leaving her book, she trods downstairs.