This used to be my home. I felt comfortable here, it was my own private sanctuary against the injustices of modern day life. A haven.
Now it’s a trap. The rooms are smaller than they used to be, and there is not enough space to stand. Every day the walls shift and move a little closer, making this already-cramped space even tighter. God forbid I leave a book on the coffee table or a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. God forbid I sling my sweater over the back of a chair. God forbid there be any sign that I (used) to live here.
I feel foolish for ever believing this place would stay a sanctuary. I feel stupid for thinking this friendship would withstand whatever came. Every day I’m shrinking my presence, withdrawing into my bedroom – the only place it feels like I’m allowed to exist anymore. Everywhere else in this place I called my home, there can be no sign of me. And it isn’t fair.
All my focus is on escaping. Scrimping and saving enough to get someplace else. Somewhere I’m welcome. Somewhere I can put down roots, water them and grow.
I thought that would be here, but you’ve made it quite clear I cannot stay. Not outright, of course, because that would be unseemly, but you drop hints like anvils and I catch your drift.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get to me some days, but for the most part I keep my eyes on the light at the end of the tunnel. Some nights when I’m trying to sleep because I have to leave the next morning at 430am and all I can hear is your television blasting through the walls, I have to breathe deeply and remember that soon I will be free.
Everything will be better once we’re out of each other’s way. It’s the waiting and planning that’s hard.