You stepped into that tiny room for the first time on a humid, August afternoon. Sweat dripped down your back as you carried box after box from one end of campus to the other. You had no idea what was coming your way when you first turned the keys to unlock the door.

Six people lived in the small apartment; you were the glue that stayed between semesters.

Each corner, nook and cranny would come to mean something to you.

The middle cushion on the black couch where you sat as one FaceTime called ended your relationship.

The toilet where you threw up before your first counseling appointment because you were so nervous.

The fridge that proudly displayed Christmas cards and wedding invitations showing you day after day that you are loved.

The toaster oven that heated up all of your food until you splurged on Black Friday and bought yourself a microwave.

The light that poked through the bottom of your bedroom window and the sound of the clock ticking that kept you company on sleepless nights.

The oven that helped you create (and occasionally burn) your finest creations teaching you that you are growing up – and that means you’ll make mistakes.

The kitchen table that served as the gathering place of many late night conversations with dear friends.

The living room floor where you impulsively got a pixie cut again.

The yellow wall covered in x’s shaped like a world map which reminded you that life was bigger than your small experience of it.

The poster on your front door that each friend signed when they came to visit – each name bearing a significant and beautiful story.

You’ll spend three-quarters of a year in that little space, and you will walk away changed. As you take the last box load out to your car, you’ll take a deep breath knowing that this season is finally over.

That space was your sanctuary. Cry out hallelujah – you made it one more year.


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