Our attic is not the cozy, Christmas-decoration kind. It’s the “don’t go up there, Emily” kind. Mom has never given a real reason. Just: “It’s dusty.” “The floor is weak.” “Nothing interesting.”
It was my room .
It’s 2:47 AM. I’m writing this under my blanket with my phone’s flashlight, because if my mom hears the creak of my pen, she’ll come in. And if she comes in, she’ll see me writing. And if she sees me writing, she’ll ask what I’m thinking about.
Our attic is not the cozy, Christmas-decoration kind. It’s the “don’t go up there, Emily” kind. Mom has never given a real reason. Just: “It’s dusty.” “The floor is weak.” “Nothing interesting.”
It was my room .
It’s 2:47 AM. I’m writing this under my blanket with my phone’s flashlight, because if my mom hears the creak of my pen, she’ll come in. And if she comes in, she’ll see me writing. And if she sees me writing, she’ll ask what I’m thinking about.