Walls

By Anonymous

The walls of my room speak louder than I ever could. Every inch is covered: pop-star posters, faded movie tickets, and photos tucked into mirrors. Each piece shouts my name, revealing parts of myself that I struggle to express. Looking at my Little Women poster, I don’t just see Jo March, I see the 13-year-old version of myself, completely frozen in awe, listening to her “Women” monologue. I had felt the fire in her voice: ambitious, frustrated, and aching for more. Pages from Looking for Alaska are taped nearby; behind them hides the girl I was at 15—quiet and unsure of her place in the world.

My walls were more than just decorations; they had become my language. When I couldn't find the words to explain how I felt, I looked to Jo March’s passion or Alaska Young’s quiet sadness. My love for fictional characters wasn't just about film or theatre; it was about raw emotion. I was drawn to their struggles, fears, and fires. These characters taught me an important lesson: I wasn't alone in the confusion of growing up.

Much to my dismay, time continued to pass. I grew a little wiser, and the edges of my posters began to curl. Colors faded, and tape slowly lost its grip. Pictures began to fall, leaving bare spots behind. I quickly put them back up, desperate to restore the familiar look of my wall. But it wasn’t the emptiness on the wall that made me uneasy—it was the feeling of emptiness itself. The barren space was almost like a crack in my identity, a sudden gap in my story. More posters started to fall, one by one. I fought against it, rushing to grab my tape and fix the imperfections left behind. However, my stubbornness was no match for the outdated tape and aged paper; posters and pictures continued to fall. With each piece that slipped away, a deep panic settled in my chest. I felt like I was losing pieces of myself, watching memories and emotions slowly fade away.

However, I started to notice something within the empty spaces. Without the pictures and posters, the walls revealed little patterns beneath the paint, tiny textures I’d never paid any attention to. In the afternoon, sunlight would creep in, casting a soft, yellow glow throughout the room. I felt the warmth in this glow; it was the promise of opportunity. The emptiness began to transform into something different. It wasn't loss, it was comfort, like saying hello to someone you knew would become a lifelong friend. The empty spots were no longer voids; they were invitations. Invitations to grow, to change, and to create something completely new.

I realized the walls didn't need to be crowded with my past; they needed room for my future. Slowly, I began to peel back old posters, those that no longer shouted my name. I sat for a moment with the strange feeling of emptiness, feeling unusual comfort, instead of my typical fear. Soon, the empty spaces transformed into something beautiful: opportunities for new memories. My walls started telling a different story: mine. I began filling the gaps with fresh decorations: photos I’d captured of friends mid-laugh, heartfelt notes from loved ones, and even my best friend’s imperfectly drawn sketches of Snoopy, which never fail to make me smile.

The evolution didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual, like the slow setting of the sun. I didn’t wake up feeling entirely new; I started noticing the small changes within myself. I laughed more, and I shared more; I stopped hiding behind Alaska’s and Jo’s voices—trusting mine instead. The walls that once held every version of me now contained space for the new. I’ll carry my past selves with me, but I will not let them talk for me. My walls may still speak, but now I do, too.