I wrote our names on my ceiling and now the house isn’t even mine.

I packed up my stuff into boxes, one by one, and loaded them into the truck outside. My once bright purple walls were now a pale white color. All of my drawings, my pictures, and my decorations, were all put away. And I left the thought of us inside of the house, driving away to never occupy it’s walls once again.

I can only imagine what the new owners would think, of two peoples names written just above their daughter’s bed. Some how, I find comfort in them painting over it, closing the chapter even further.

However, I cannot lie. Some days, I drive by that house. Looking into the windows of my old bedroom, where I first fell in love, where my first heart break was, where I grew up running around with my friends, and the first place that we lived for several years consecutively. It was the house that built me.

Even if I could go back to that house, I wouldn’t. The ghost of the old me haunts it, she walks around the halls and lays in her bed writing happy things. She has no troubles, has all of her friends, and smiled every day, never knowing the trama, crippling illness, and betrayal that she had waiting for her just a few years later. She is my innocence.

And if I couldn’t hold onto her, I hope that someone else can.