The room feels empty, but it’s not. Sounds seem to resonate within the four walls, and light flows in unrestrained. She lies on the bed, hair spread out like ink diffusing through water. The chipping paint on the ceiling occupies most of her attention, although she is not unaware of the silence that seems to make her drowsy and reclusive. How dull that shade of yellow is, she thinks. Yellow. Ye-llow. She plays with the word in her head, flipping it around and saying- not thinking- it backwards (woll-ey). A picture is worth a thousand words. Would she make a pretty picture?

The room feels empty, but it’s not. It should be, she thinks. She cannot imagine why, though. It’s one of those things which just .. “should be”. Voices from downstairs float up. It;s a conversation she felt like interrupting. But reclusive-ness has it’s rules, which one must adhere to. If only one could be selectively reclusive. Selectively silent – she always loved alliteration. But to escape from questions, decorum and prevent possible-offensive-remarks that might escape from her mouth, she chooses to continue her inspection of the pale-yellow painted chipping ceiling.

She was never good with dealing with awkward situations. The kind where she stalls a perfectly smooth flowing conversation with a remark that seems to drop from nowhere. Sometimes she can feel the awkwardness while she is still forming the syllables. It’s too late to stop then. She would just make things more awkward. Then, the whole process of covering up for what she meant despite not wanting to, but knowing it would be expected of her. The retreating words. They danced the dance of apology – if they had bodies they would surely be squirming with eyes downcast, feverishly waiting for the moment to pass and someone might change the subject.

Is jealousy of inanimate objects still jealousy? They never have to dance the dance of apology. They never have to fill up the empty space of disapproving silence with harsh, grating and forced sounds of unnecessarily cheerful laughter.

The room feels empty but it’s not. She is in the room. The only animate being. The room, with chipping paint. The room that matches her silence with it’s own.