I have realized I have become more unwilling to part with my precious books than I am to part with this house. This was never my childhood home. Technically we moved in when I was still muddling around in my childhood years but I never took my first steps here or accidentally said my first curse word. I did however, have my first kiss here so in my mind, it lies firmly in the land of awkward adolescence.
To add to that transition quality, my once homey and colorful room is starting to show the effects of moving out. My postcards and posters and art projects that once adorned the walls have been restricted to boxes and the floor is littered with suitcases and bags of assorted junk, ready to be sent to the Salvation Army.
That being said, getting ready to leave has me notice the details of this house more so than I ever have before.
The stone threshold to my bathroom is still stained with streaks of red nail polish from when I tripped on the day of Junior Prom. I had to stand in front of the sink with my hands holding my eyelids so I wouldn't cry and streak my makeup.
There is a heart scribbled in hot pink ink on the inside of my closet door. Inside are written various girls names that were then decisively crossed out with a black marker once I denounced them as friends. Only three remain and two of those could use a black pen even now, several years later.
A bit of tape is still stuck to my brother's door from when I drew an elaborate Slytherin crest to match my Ravenclaw one. It still makes me sad that we had to take them down.
These are just things I've noticed in the past day. I wonder if I'll just collect these moments in time from now until Tuesday when I say goodbye. When I finally do start to miss these walls, I'll have happy thoughts stockpiled. That should last me until Thanksgiving.
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