White walls

I'm staring at the white wall in my new room, wondering how this happened. I've got ten half-opened boxes crowded behind me, my silly socks on, my stuffed-elephant looking down at me from my empty bookcase. It's raining. I just fixed myself dinner, a ready-made cheese pastry from the supermarket. I didn't feel like cooking. That's something I'll be doing for the rest of my life, so I might as well skip it the first time. The house is completely quiet, except for the soft hum of my computer. Outside, the thunder growls at me. The cars have gone home, the teacups have been washed. My speakers kept me loud company for the past 4 hours, but I'm giving them some rest. I'm trying to decide what I should feel. The rollercoaster I've been on for the past few weeks has abruptly screeched to a halt, but I'm still sitting in the seat, waiting for the next loop. Maybe I'm too scared to get out. Everyone else has gone home. But I realize this is home now. I see the plaid my mom made, waiting for me on the neatly made-up bed. I see my boiler, begging me to make tea like it always does. My mirror, reminding me that this strange girl in this strange room is really me. This independent university student. I shudder. But slowly, I remove the safety bar. I can do this. I might have finished this ride, but there are plenty more waiting for me. My life is only beginning, and I'm ready. And I know I'm never really alone anyway.