Her sheets were blue. You knew this because she never made her bed. She was the type who didn't understand the point of it. Her chilled, thin quilts on top were always tousled or falling off the side. She was a heavy sleeper and one of her favorite feelings was when her head hit the pillow. Her bed was envied by others, and she was proud of the comfort it brought, not to just herself but to many. She wasn't the only one who had slept in it. Friends with broken hearts who needed consoling, friends who needed to escape and take a nap away from reality, friends who visited to just chat. It was a safe haven. Not just for her, but for anyone who knew her well enough to be inside her bedroom.
Her bedroom was messy. You rarely could see the floor, through the cluttered piles of notes and textbooks, the dirty clothes that spilled from under her bed, and the wadded up tissues used as erasers for her dry erase board. She worked hard and she studied hard. Her room was colorful and never dull. She believed that her bedroom was a direct correlation of herself. She worked so hard to make people feel comfortable and safe and she wanted everyone who came in to feel that way. She loved when natural sunlight flooded the floor and walls, and the way her fan felt on her back as she studied. Her bedroom was home.