There’s always something to be said about that which isn’t your own. That which isn’t your possession, isn’t your territory, isn’t even remotely your space. Yet I lie there, against that foreign scenery and I realize that maybe it’s for the best. That to be able to notice those differences and to be able to feel a connection to what never has been and what never will be mine simply makes it all the more renowned.

Nothing there is really cramped so much as it is fulfilling. “Lived in” had always been a depiction I hardly understood, but it makes perfect sense now. The phrase is reflected in her hanging fairy lights, in her camera, in her actions; especially in her own domain. It’s as if the light of life follows her there, and it’s infectious. The joy can be felt from the instruments to the worn game controllers, in the mementos collected over the years. It shines blindingly through all that it touches, and I can’t imagine feeling anything other than content in that room.

The stake I claim on it comes in bursts. It’s in the journeys we share near it, from the recess-reminiscent antics of a park playground to the truly novel exploration of the new horizons of the ravaged underside of a street bridge. Adventures of all sorts end there, whether they be magnificent, horrendous, or anywhere in between.  They make themselves known in memories that all link back in their finale. The circle back may not be arduous, but that’s not to make it any less memorable.

Even more, the stake I claim on it comes in moments. They’re shared under the covers at the witching hour: anything from world events to deep introspection. It begins just as it ends: two friends coming together for whatever they please, and living it out in full. Weight is not carried upon the day there, but amongst the night, where we lie in its covers and speak the sense that comes with both the passive energy of the dark and the vibrant energy of realms we create.

Remarkably, against all of that, what’s not said holds much more substance. It’s a feeling of joy and contentment, yes, but what cannot be overlooked is the overwhelming sincerity of all that happens. To cry in such a place may seem akin to sacrilege, but when I am there I am secure. I am safe. I know, both then and now, that when I am in that space there is nothing I must hide. I have the freedom to, but just the same I have the option not to. The environment itself exudes a sense of support simply because of the mere fact that it is hers. I think that is what tells me that it’s to be prized.

Ultimately, the revelation I have experienced is just that. The harshness of our screens versus the softness that surrounds, the quiet of our voices versus the chatter we tend towards in public. The proof that there is such a thing as casual domesticity overrides any nuance I might have sought out, and I know, most of all, that there is something special in the simplicity of what having a friend is, and its power is found in that space of hers that I find myself in so often. Power found in the way we operate, power found in the way we don’t find our long silences to be crushing, power found in the way we trust we will not ruin each other. All contained solely in that bedroom.

I have found that in the warmth of both ambiance and trust there is truly such a thing as being one and the same. There, we may not be of the same body but we find ourselves to be of the same mind. I’m not sure I can fathom how such a simple section of a house can beckon assuredness, yet it does regardless. It’s encompassed by the surety of the sheets, by the opacity of the curtains, by the grit of the carpet beneath us. That, there, there are no limitations so much as there is the sky.

Above all else, I am acutely aware that her space will never be mine. For all the time I spend there, there will forever be that barrier of ownership, and that is one that I will never bypass. Despite that, I know in my heart of hearts that even if it is not my own I can have a place there, and I believe that is more than enough.