- Wendy’s Perspective - 

Faint afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, landing on the faded wallpaper that had started to peel off the walls. Specks of dust drifted through the musty air.

A single, wilted plant sat on the sun bleached windowsill, its leaves drooping, dried and cracked from neglect.

A large black fly buzzed, as it thudded against the thin glass of the window.

An old map of the American midwest hung sagging on the wall.

There were no pictures. 

A girl sat silently in the far corner, her eyes following the specks of dusk, which fell like stardust on an old stack of books that were unceremoniously pulled from the bookshelves. 

The broken spines read Northanger Abbey, Little Women, Gone with the Wind, Prince Otto. Old classics that she loved to read. 

The others read The Catcher In the Rye, Great Gatsby, Carol. Good books nonetheless, but of no fixed genre. Those were the books her roommate loved to read. Especially Carol, that one was her favorite.

I guess when you look at something long enough, they start to map out the winding alleys of memories you don’t want to remember.

The label ‘Roommates’ didn’t sound correct to the girl.

'Roommates’ didn’t kiss with the passion of summer storms. 

‘Roommates' didn’t touch each other tentatively, sudden, brief, and unsure.

‘Roommates’ didn’t look at each other with eyes that filled with lightning and thunder.

Irene. That was her name. To this day, she still comes back in waves. 

They were good together, for a little while

They were, before Irene decided that their relationship wasn’t really a relationship and moved on, out of Wendy’s life, out of the musty house they shared, out of the small damned town they lived in.

That didn’t explain why Irene took all their pictures.

Sometimes, questions are better left unanswered, because hope and longing can be dangerous.

All Wendy knows is that Irene left behind an empty room and an empty heart filled with false promises.