a stranger’s space
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
the dormitory grounds are massive, much bigger than the photos showed. the corridors are filled with gentle murmurs as students pass to exit and make their way to class. the year is half over, yet only now have you decided to transition into using the school dormitories.
your suitcase weighs you down as you drag it through the halls, the wheels making noise as they hit the floor. your room is close, you believe so anyway, as you have yet to explore this site.
people expect that it is home, however it feels like you are starting a new life — a life that isn't yours. you wished to be back at home with your family whilst you attended school, but that reality was no more.
𓂃۶ৎ
the door opens with a soft creak as you enter, your suitcase following. the room decoration is the minimal with particles of dust drifting in the sun’s rays. the living area is small with two doors on either side. in the centre of the living area sits a glossed wooden coffee table. an opened window sits just beyond that. you need to close that later, you mentally note. a gentle breeze enters the room it and lightly brushes up against the white silken curtains.
you hold tighter to the suitcase; you breathe out slowly. for the time it is just a space, no more. it’s not your home.
your eyes slowly trace the living space and note any subtle changes you can make to feel more welcomed. whilst your eyes glance over the space, you notice that a hoodie sits draped across the sofa. a roommate, you hum.
the dark material of the hoodie is creased from wear and cast carelessly over the sofa's armrest. thus is the first clear sign that you will not be on your own here, a subtle signal that this place — no matter how new it feels - is already inhabited.
moving your suitcase deeper into the area, you pause before placing it close to one of the entrances that you believe is your own. the air is still with only some movement of the curtains from the open window. you allow yourself to stand there for awhile, taking in the freshness of the evening’s air.
you do not know the type of individual you will be sharing the area alongside. will they be friendly? aloof? will they care that you moved into the dorms during the middle of the academic year, altering any pattern they have made? you sigh, giving your temples a rub before deciding to drop the matter and explore the bedroom you have been given.
you exhale and move toward the door you believe is yours. your fingers graze the door’s handle before turning it. the hinges open without any issue, showing a room that is as empty as the living area. the walls have nothing on them, they are completely bare, other than the paint’s white coat that covers them. the bed is made well but unused. the air is cold, but fresh. a desk is neatly tucked against a wall under a small bookshelf.
you set your suitcase down next to the bed. to unpack seems like a promise that this is where your new home is — it isn’t. for a brief time you think about not doing it. maybe you could pretend — for this evening — that this is not permanent. but deep down you know that is far from the truth.
you unzip your bag and begin to sort your belongings. clothes get neatly folded and tucked into drawers. books go on the shelf above the desk in stacks. small personal items are set out to fill the bare area. in a brief period of time, the space seems less bare and more welcoming and warm.
a sound from the hall makes you stop. your roommate, probably. you think about staying where you are or could avoid meeting them for a bit more. then, you think about the hoodie on the sofa and how it looked used and known. this area may not seem like your own yet, or ever, but it is one person's space. maybe you should meet them?
you pause, your fingers near the final object within your bag. it is a little memento from your home, a familiar object in an unfamiliar location. the sound from the hallway disappears, consumed by the stillness of the dormitory. you breathe out and put the idea of introductions away. that will not happen this night.
you take the time to fully observe the space, noticing each small modifications you created. the books are stacked in an orderly way. the clothes are stored, little trinkets of yours lay around the room and a small lamp for reading. slight signs of you begin to exist within the area. it is not home. it is a start.
you walk toward the window on the far end of your room, then you gently close it, blocking the nightly air. the air becomes more silent and feels more contained.
a sudden thought comes over you, as you consider if your roommate remains on the other side of that door. perhaps they feel as unsure about meeting you as your own feelings about them. or maybe not.
pushing the fleeting thoughts aside, they are not important right now. you rest your forehead against the window gazing into the dark campus. the light from far-off dorm rooms reaches you; some weak and blinking, some strong and steady. someone else, another one living their life, is behind each light in this still-strange place to you.
in the window, your ghostly reflection hits your eyes. you seem worn out — way more than you're supposed to. it’s the heft of moving, or maybe it’s something more.
you let out a soft exhale, shift your gaze from the window to the mostly unpacked suitcase. you figure it’s better to finish that now, rather than later.
heading back to your bed, the stillness of the dorm feels different — the opposite of those lively corridors you wandered down before. in the silence though, your mind starts to fill up with stuff you'd prefer not to think about.
and then — there's another noise.
a door's soft click, a hushed whisper of feet shuffling.
you pause, listening. seems like your roommate's around. did they stop by your door, unsure whether to greet you?
you let out a breath feeling your shoulders drop a bit. no rush on their end means no rush on yours.
to ease your mind you decide you should get to tidying up the few things left in your suitcase. some more reads, note-filled notebooks, post-it notes, a soft plushed blanket, a few chargers, a couple of pictures in frames — stuff that's supposed to make you feel at home. but now, they just remind you of all the memories you had to say goodbye to. you gently touch one of the picture frames, slide your fingers around the edges, and then place it on the desk in a careful-like manner.
maybe this space will seem more like it is yours tomorrow, and the hoodie that sits draped over the sofa in the living area will seem more home-like than some rando's gear.
or perhaps tomorrow will feel just as weird as today.
perched on the bed's brink, giving your arms a rub due to the lingering cold even though the window is shut tight. it makes you curious about the kind of person your roommate might be — what their personality is, their reaction to having you around. might they be indifferent or irritated, or, if you're lucky maybe even friendly.
guessing is all you can do right now.
so, you snuggle into your soft-plushed blankets, letting the day's weariness overtake you at last.
your thoughts become fuzzy, flipping between yesterday and today as sleep starts to take hold. outside your room quiet except for the hush, there's another stirring — your soon-to-be roommate still unknown to you. a stranger.
but not forever.