There are way too many things in her room. Every inch seems filled with knick-knacks, old posters, and decorations. My eyes keep getting drawn to the Chinese lamp with shelves underneath it, adding a nice touch. But I can’t get past the fact that the entire room is painted pink. Not just any pink—baby pink. It’s way too bright for my taste, almost like stepping into a cotton candy machine. It’s a strange contrast to the bits and pieces of interesting things scattered around.
Over her mattress, there’s a collage of photographs with supportive quotes, and some are clearly from her childhood, judging by the way her handwriting scrawls over the edges. In every picture, she’s alone, smiling at the camera, as if determined to capture her joy despite the absence of anyone else by her side. It ma
