exploring her room

James shifted the bear aside gently, as if it were alive and watching, and let his gaze roam the expanse of the bedroom. Every surface seemed to hold something—every corner carefully arranged, too alive to be just decoration. He rose slowly, his bare feet sinking into the plush rug as he began to wander, touching, exploring, almost like sleepwalking.

The pastel dresser by the wall pulled him first. He tugged open the top drawer and found neatly folded stacks of patterned socks—hearts, strawberries, cartoon animals with wide eyes. He picked up a pair of white ankle socks with pink lace trim and, without meaning to, held them against his cheek. A shiver went through him, sharp enough to make his throat tighten.

He blinked rapidly. A flash—sunlight, a giggle, small feet pounding across polished floors. Socks like these, slipping, laughter, the scrape of a knee followed by warm hands helping him up. He jerked the socks back into the drawer, slamming it shut.

What was that?

Shaken, he turned toward the vanity. The mirror gleamed, a scattering of glittery cosmetics and hairbrushes arrayed across the surface. His hand hovered over a bottle of pale pink nail polish. The moment his fingers brushed it, a wave of warmth spread through his chest—then an image blinked through his mind: a girl’s hand, delicate, slim, perched on the edge of this same vanity, polish shining wet under the light. The memory wasn’t his. Couldn’t be his.

He snatched his hand back, clutching his chest. “No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “That’s not me.”

Still, he couldn’t stop himself. His body moved on its own, as if drawn deeper into Ariel’s world. He opened the closet door, the scent of lilac sachets washing over him. Dresses in pastel shades lined up like candy jars—ruffles, lace, fabrics that seemed too soft to touch. His fingertips drifted over a butter-yellow sundress. The sensation of the fabric under his hand unlocked something: warmth on his shoulders, a field of green, laughter again, but _his _laughter sounding light, feminine, unburdened.

He staggered back, dizzy, slamming the closet door shut.

His eyes darted to the desk by the window. Schoolbooks stacked neatly, the handwriting on notes playful and looping. He picked up a journal lying half-hidden under a pillow on the chair. The cover was worn with use, a unicorn drawn in the corner. Against his better judgment, he flipped it open.

On the first page, words scrawled in bubbly purple ink:

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong anywhere… but in this room, I’m safe.”

The handwriting tugged at him like a hook buried under skin. His vision blurred, throat closing tight. A sob rose, unbidden, and he choked it back, hugging the journal to his chest.

Everywhere he looked, Ariel’s life seeped into him. The room didn’t just belong to her—it welcomed him, embraced him, claimed him. And with every brush of fabric, every spark of memory, James felt less like an intruder.

And more like he belonged here.