Here, among the bedroom I grew up in, notebooks dated back from middle school, books crammed into the small, green bookshelf, overflowing into stacks on the floor. From my bed I can see the faded glow in the dark stars stuck on the old mirror. A soft purple blanket, a gift from my lover’s mother, covers the bed. Surrounded by stacks of paper scattered across the kitchen table and a fridge that never seems to replenish itself. The pug’s snorting, snuffling, and shrill barks, the cat brushing up against my leg. The cry of the gulls I heard outside my dorm replaced with the chirping of robins and wrens. Only you can take away the ocean view from my dorm’s balcony, and the organized desk whose shelves housed all my books and utensils which have now been replaced with a kitchen table covered in papers. Only you can cause me to revert to my habit of going without meals because Miley is simpler, less expensive than home. Only you can disrupt the schedule I’ve grown accustomed to and force me to adjust. Only you can. --Katy