In Sarah's room, I look around. I close my eyes and inhale through my mouth then through my nose. I touch the bed spread, the sheets, the walls, floor, and furniture. I stand still in the center of the room and listen.

In Sarah's room, I see cheap white furniture, a bed and a dresser, the same as she's had almost her whole life, little pink flowers with little green leaves printed around the edges. I see framed picture of Sarah and her friends-and me-smiling together, mostly from graduation. I see a worn down comforter. I see stains on the carpet. I see a window across from the door and to the right of the bed.

In Sarah's room, I taste what her mom's making for dinner. I taste her. I taste something sweet and clean.

In Sarah's room, I smell her shampoo. I smell cleaning supplies. I smell something that makes me miss my childhood, but I can't put my finger on what it is. It smells like sunshine. I shake it off. I smell the rural town air through the window she left cracked open. In her bed, I smell her skin. I smell sex.

In Sarah's room, I feel how the comforter isn't as fluffy as it should be. I feel the imprints in the mattress, a deep one where she sleeps every night and some other shallower ones for when she doesn't sleep alone. I feel a little left over warmth on the bed from last time she laid there. I feel the drafts coming through the walls. I feel a slight dampness on the wall separating the bedroom from the bathroom where a pipe must be leaking. I feel the path in the floor where she walks. I feel the worn edge on the dresser.

In Sarah's room, I hear the back door close as her mother walks outside. I hear kids playing down the block. I hear a dog bark. I hear birds chirping. I hear the washer going down the hall through the thin walls.