Before the Doors Closed

I remember the walls—

they didn’t see me exist,

but they felt me leaving.

The wooden floors held stories

of midnight giggles,

barefoot races,

and whispered secrets

under dim hallway lights.

There was a kitchen

with chipped blue tiles

where you taught me how sorrow

tastes like burnt toast

and hope smells like fresh bread.

That place was more than shelter:

it was my first map—

direction told by laughter

and comfort shaped by routine.

When the keys left the table,

and the front door shut behind you,

I searched for echoes.

They were there—

in dusty windowsills,

in quiet corners,

in memories that cling

like old wallpaper.

Home wasn’t the bricks.

It was the warmth

that made me feel seen

even when I was invisible.

I carried that light

into rooms I rented,

into streets I walked alone,

into the dusk

before every dawn.

And though the doors stay closed now,

their laughter still breathes

in my chest—

a soft reminder:

I was once held.

I was once home.

Thank You So Much For Reading 🥰🥰🥰