The room of my heart is just what you would expect. A room.

It’s a well-furnished room.

There’s a bed. Bookshelf. Dresser. Closet. Night table. Desk.

The funny thing about the desk is
there’s a huge schedule on it that takes up most of the surface. It’s been penciled on, scribbled on, doodled on and scratched out. The schedule is the only thing I have to write on. And there’s only one pencil.

There’s even a lamp next to the bed. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and remember something. I have to get milk the next day. I forgot about a paper that’s due next week. So I turn on the lamp, and write those things in the schedule on the desk.

Every month looks like the last.

Busy with things to occupy myself with. Some days I’m so busy and I’m so tired I just come to the room and lie down to sleep.

Yesterday, I walked in the room. I was restless. I wanted to read a book. But I found the bookshelf to be empty. I wanted to change into comfortable clothes. But I found the dresser was just three wooden drawers stacked on top of each other, no clothes. The closet, a series of white, plastic hangers all in a line, but nothing hanging from them. After this confusing discovery, I quickly became tired.
But I noticed that there were no sheets on the bed, just a mattress. I could have sworn I fixed the bed that morning, pulling the sheets up and setting the pillows upright. But now, all of a sudden, the room had changed. It was empty. There was nothing there. Except the schedule.

Except the schedule.

The schedule was the only thing that wasn’t empty, sitting on the desk in the room of my heart.

The room of my heart is just what you wouldn’t expect. An empty room.