I can just about put into words how I feel, laying on the top of this single bed. Belly flat with my legs bent in the air.
Face resting in the palm of my left hand, as I write these mundane words down in my beautiful emerald green notebook, with the fountain pen I got for Christmas last year.
My body in this most recognisable stature, transporting my psyche back to my teenage years. The girl who wrote short stories and dreamed for hours in this same position. Wondering where she would be in ten years time. One of life's perfect ironies she be laying now in the same position, pondering the same nonsense of life.
I like lying on this single bed. Laying on my belly, it feels nostalgic. I feel safe.
That younger version of myself rears her nosey head. I almost want to apologise to her, tell her sorry for forcing her to grow up too fast.
For asking my mum for that double bed too early.