On a particularly hot July afternoon, I became a yellow room to watch a cheerful girl move in. From my seat below the windowsill, I saw her unpack wooden boards and nail packets from forts of cardboard boxes, assembling shelves and dressers that framed me in white and beige. Books, bags, clothes, a clarinet perfused over the plained furniture and carpet like colors on a drawing, layering into place over time. Every now and then when the golden glow of afternoon slanted through my windows, she tacked an origami to the wall or transposed fixtures; the nightstand switched sides of the bed, the dresser shifted three inches left, the purple lamp disappeared. Playfully, sixth grade passed in the sequestered moments mirroring little musings on each other.

I became a yellow room to watch a determined girl crochet little trinkets out of pastel threads. Without a desk, she sprawled across the floor, fingers weaving mazes of polygons and chains. Amigurumis lined her shelves, the stuffed animals she never had; yarn scraps weltered the floor like autumn leaves. Hundreds of hours hunkered under a yellow light, accompanied by her shadow and an ever-growing pile of creations. One day, she unraveled a half-moon rug, as long as her arm and ringed with thick ruffles. Draped in yellow and white arches, it complimented her room well. She arranged it at the foot of her bed.

I became a yellow room to watch a nervous girl become a high schooler. Rain jeweled my windows, and a pallid sky obscured the sun. She situated a cyan desk by my front door, the wooden legs coated in frayed, white hairline cracks from a decade of another’s usage. Workbooks piled upon it in mini towers, and beside them half-empty plastic water bottles grouped and remained. Day merged with night - a shadow hunched under the lamplight in carved stone, a laptop gleamed incessantly on a cyan sea like a beacon, silence hung in discarded papers and closed doors. Yellow walls stared at each other, a continent apart.

On a particularly hot July afternoon, I became a yellow room to watch a tired girl move out. She packaged amigurumis and books into small crates and lugged shelved furniture away, leaving a silhouette of a place once dressed like her. Haste guided her steps like a guardian - tepid recluse followed in her shadow. On a night where the moon hung small and gibbous, she painted over my walls in soft, snow-white, and that was the last I saw of her.