Snippets of my old room flood my mind, as I walk past the towering red-brick building where I once lived. I wonder if its current residents realize its value lies in the memories made behind four walls. I wonder if they became best friends, like me and my roommate did. I wonder if the white walls whisper stories of its past owners. Stories filled with hysterical laughter and uncontrollable tears. Stories of heartbreak, homesickness and hope. The dent in the wall mimicking the dent in my pan; from carelessly swinging it around. The permanent stains from drink spills on the floor my roommate and I desperately tried to scrub off. Remnants of shiny streamers and crumpled confetti from our celebrations of birthdays, balls and bittersweet byes.
My room had seen it all. From early mornings, rushing to get ready for class under the shrill sound of alarms to late nights, debating over what movie to watch next. From bed rotting under the guise of self-care to singing (or perhaps screaming) 2000s pop hits unabashedly. From anxiously revising hours before a midterm exam to long-conversations way past our intended bedtime. The air occasionally smelt of vanilla-scented candles, of strong coffee or carefully curated instant ramen. My room had seen people come and go, seasonal change reflected in our wardrobes, and mood swings like flickering fairy lights. My old room really had seen it all.
I wonder where I was a year ago, at this exact date and time. I wonder where I will be next year, at this exact moment. Probably in a different room. Possibly with different people. Perhaps I would be different as well. I find it so beautiful to think that every dorm room I occupy sees a different version of me. A witness to my growth; from an anxious teenager stepping into the throes of adulthood in an unknown city, surrounded by strangers to my current self – no less anxious but searching for her place in the world, after building a home and life here. The past and future versions of myself stand tall before my mind; each reflected in the dorm room they occupied. Reflected in the books on the shelf, pictures on the orange pinboard and yellow sticky-notes on the desk. I’ve outgrown people and fears, the same way I’ve grown out of my old room. But as my sense of self continues to shift, pieces of me are embedded in the places I loved to visit and the people I love to be with. I’ve left behind traces of myself in a dorm room that will soon belong to someone else.
To think that in less than a few months someone else would own the same rusty keys and walk into the room that was my world, unaware of the memories made, seems quite haunting. The deep attachment to a dorm room that I never really owned reflects the transience of space. Every year I adapt to a new space and make it mine, only to leave it behind in my fading memories. I faintly remember my first night at Ashoka. I lay awake for hours on end blankly staring at the ceiling in an empty enclosure, as a stranger in my own room. But then, I also remember my last night in my old dorm room, the night before the first summer break and closing of yet another chapter. My friends and I sat cross-legged on the cold floor, sharing Subway sandwiches as we shared our summer schedules and unspoken dreams. I wish we’d stayed up later, laughed louder and held on tighter just so the moment could stretch a little longer. Those unnoticed lasts tend to hide in the shadows of the firsts; appreciated only when they become memories, stories of the past.
I hope the next person to walk into these very doors finds a similar version of the dorm room I experienced, or a version equally welcoming. I hope the dorm witnesses their confusion, their fear and eventual growth. I hope they treasure its moments before they become memories. I hope they find comfort in knowing that despite its fleeting ownership, the four walls hold the lingering ghosts of emotion and memory.
Maybe then, they too shall wonder who occupied this room before them.