I’m not actually hiding. Hiding means you’re deliberately avoiding a person or people. I don’t care if someone sees me. I didn’t come here for the purpose of getting away from people. I came here because I like the damp smell that hangs in the air, soft and cool. I like the way the only light that gets in is thin little lines, like strings on a guitar or a violin. I almost feel like if I touch them, they’ll make music. Having only strings of light makes you appreciate it more than if you have a whole roomful. It loses something, like it’s washed out or diluted or something.

When they find me, if they find me, they’ll think I’m hiding. Why else would I shut myself up in this little room? No one could ever understand that I love this little room. I love the peeling walls and the soft floor. I love how quiet it is, like being underwater.

It also has a strange sort of familiarness to it. I only first discovered it a few months ago, but even the first time I found it, I felt like I had been here before. It makes me think of being younger and smaller and caring less about the world. I care far too much about the world now. I used to be able to forget about it. I forgot about it all the time, playing with my dolls and drawing pictures with crayons. I lived in my own world and hardly worried about the other one.

Maybe that’s why I like this room. It makes me feel safe. It’s as if I’ve found my own world again. Maybe I can stay here, on the soft floor, plucking strings of light, and forget about the other world. Maybe it will forget me.

I thought I wasn’t hiding, but maybe I am. Maybe I’m hiding from the other world.