Her room is rarely in order. It’s in a constant state of disarray.

The clothes on her floor protect her soft carpet from the footprints left by the feet she drags through each day. They provide her extra cushioning when her falls don’t make it to her bed. 

The stack of papers on her desk reminds her of all of the stress she has spent weeks avoiding. The wall formed by the malleable procrastination hides the evidence of control slipping from her hands. 

The rows of books concealing her bed have become the epitome of distractions from the time she has so quickly lost track of. They remind her of the hope she once believed in; they don’t let that hope completely out of sight. 

Her shelf of bath bombs and face masks deceive the limited number of people who sneak into her room; they emit a sense of tranquility—they are far from tranquil. They sit on her shelf to remind her of the pleasantries she no longer has time for. 

Her empty walls act as a diversion from the disaster around her. Her countless Zoom calls and FaceTimes with people she interacts with in hopes of finding some connection make her appear somewhat stable, for the people on the other end can only see those blank canvases holding her room up. 

Her room is rarely in order. 

She knows if it is, it will make her life appear in order, and she’s tired of lying to herself about it. She knows, even in its cleanest state, it will never reach the standards she has set for herself—the standards that others have set for her. 

So she accepts the clutter as it is. 

She traps herself in this cage of confusion and becomes unwilling to make any amends to it. She locks herself in the one place that truly reflects her state of mind, the one place that doesn’t bother nagging her about each step she chooses to take. She conceals herself from a world of judgment and disgust to surround herself with a mess she can control when things reach their worst. 

She isolates herself. 

She is ashamed of the mask she has put on, but she knows she’s too deep to turn back. She tries to hold herself together because life has been hard enough—she doesn’t want to put her burdens on anyone else. 

She closes that life away from anyone that attempts to breach it. 

She closes the door to her room. 

She gives the illusion that everything is alright, and, as long as no one finds themself on the other side of the door, that illusion will stand tall. 

Her door is never open, but she’s content knowing she’s made it through her friends’ doorways. She spends each day praying that those around her will never have to barricade their doors the same way she did. 

She closes her door, and that will never change.