I used to have a purple room. It was closet-like and immature but I asked for it because the purple and white color scheme intrigued me. It reminded me of confidence. Girls who had rooms like that never needed anybody to tell them where they fit into the world, because they never had to worry about figuring it out. It was either already planned for them, or they just simply didn’t care.
My bed was a twin-sized with a purple silk bedspread and zebra-printed sheets. It stayed that way, tidy and reassuring, for eight years. I almost returned home to it after college until my mom decided to turn it into a guest room. She took out my twin bed, she painted blue over my purple walls, she turned my purple silk bedspread into a green quilt, and her excuse: “I thought you were never coming back.” I wasn’t supposed to, mom.
I got used to the queen-sized bed. I went from sleeping in the middle of it, to sprawling out diagonally, to eventually just sleeping on it perpendicularly all together. The space started to soothe me and I had completely broken the habit of huddling into myself on the small, cloud-like mattress pad that was my old bed. But then, on a night after spilling tears and embarrassingly showing the world that I could never be the confident girl in the purple room, you came into my bed.
You took the right side and I huddled into myself on the left when you fell asleep during our argument. I was being more honest with you than I had ever been and it slipped you into unconsciousness. Arms crossed. Drunk. No desire to touch me. Ever since then, I have found myself creeping into the left side of the bed, holding my legs, and trying not to disturb you.
Don’t be alarmed. I know you’re not there. But I keep waiting for you to tell me you’ll stay.