Arriving home from Chris's was strange. I'd expected to feel some sense of loss after having a roommate for the weekend, or to perhaps feel a little relieved that I was no longer privy to those emerald eyes. Instead, I feel nothing – I'm numb, unfeeling, unsure if that means I don't care about him at all or if it's quite the opposite.
I place my weekend bag by the door, relishing in the silence of my house. I've never realised that it is an entirely blank canvas – ironic considering my love of artistic expression – and that it didn't personify me at all. Most people's colour scheme or furniture choices give something away about them. Here, it's as though I've stripped it bare to keep myself from it, to stop it from really being a home.
My studio is the one place that holds a piece of me.
