The Girl Who Lives in my Room

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Some days, she rises early and goes for a short run around the pond. She secures her cropped, dark brown hair with a thin, turquoise headband before rushing out the door. Beneath her bed, a guitar case and Yoda slippers peep out. The art bin is also hers, and the abstract marble wave she carved last semester in stone sculpture class, and the odd, spider-legged contraption, which turns out to be a head massager.

The assignments in her bullet journal are written in precise 8 pt. lettering. When she reads, she reads long and thoroughly. Sometimes I come in the room in the evening and she’s chatting with her family, who have just woken up in Japan. Sometimes I slide into bed and she’s still typing by the light of her charcoal colored Macbook. Above her desk, she pasted: “Great is thy Faithfulness” and a photo of a sea slug. “Veronica, aren’t they so cute?”

When she’s in a hurry, she strides, leaning forward and toting her blue Fjallraven backpack. People frequently say “hi” as she passes. Tuesday and Thursday evenings she sits in orchestra in her black TOMS and green cardigan and lowers her chin to play her violin.

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She likes ice cream and chocolate and tea. She is a gracious listener and a thoughtful friend. She’s also the girl who sleeps in the bed across from me. She goes by Emmy.

Veronica A.

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