I’m sitting in my old room, on my old bed. The bed I would fall asleep on late night, APWH papers sprawled everywhere. The floor where I’d sit and cry on like a teenage girl. The room that I packed up and left three years ago. 

The window I looked out of every day for seventeen years. 

For kicks, I’m playing the music I used to listen to when I was 17. The lyrics that tugged at my little heartstrings when I had just finished high school, ready to take on a new world. That summer that I can only manage to gather little snippets of in my mind. Silly me. 

I grew up in this room. In this house. In this city. Sometimes I worried that coming back and melding so naturally meant that I hadn’t changed much. That I wasted a major opportunity to change. Silly me.

I wish 17-year-old me had left more writings for me. We’re different, she and I. We might have the same friends, the same family, the same roots. But we know different things. Have different perspectives. 

It’s funny how at 17 I was more self-assured than I am now. 

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