EllieMy books just laid there, on the floor, not in any order. I had shelves without organization, leaving gaps where I should have figured something else out. I didn’t want to tell Mom we couldn’t leave because I had to sort out my crazy person brain, so I’d walked away. I left, with my mind focused on the fact that my books could have been tipping over. If they tipped over, then it could have caused a massive crash. The weight would press down and everything could come falling over. My things would break, damaging the floor. Then people would come in and have to fix it, being in my space, getting their scent on things, looking around. They would be there, and I would have to watch them. What if they moved something else? What if something got broken so bad that I would have to move rooms while it got fixed? I grew up in that room. I couldn’t just live in another fucking room. I would wake up and it wouldn’t be the same, if I could even get to sleep. If I left that room, then I woul
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