The room, the unfinished

Everyone has one of those boxes: it’s a physical to-do list, full of things you promised yourself you’d come back to. The empty journal you swore you’d fill. The restaurant voucher you haven’t redeemed. The camera you need to sell. The photos you wanted to put into an album.

If you were to carefully fold yourself up and climb into that box, and blink hard enough at just the right moment, you’ll find yourself in The Room.

A friend, the one having a rough time, the one you’ve been meaning to call for months, will be standing next to you, tears in their eyes.

By your feet will be a pile of paper, covered in the words you dreamed of writing but never did.

The puppy you didn’t take home from the shelter that day will be in the corner, whimpering softly.

The person you offended and never apologized to will be sitting on an old armchair, avoiding eye contact, seething.

There will be an unmade bed.

An unwashed car.

A skydiving instructor.

A thousand things to be done, promises to fulfill, tasks to complete, people to placate.

So you begin.