I never want to grow up.

My room looks unnaturally clean, unnaturally empty as I walk into it for the last time. Boxes are stacked from floor to ceiling in the corner, soaking up the whispers my voice is making to keep the empty silence away. I walk over the place where my bed used to be, the imprints of the bedposts haunting the floor where my toes touch. So many memories in this room. I grew up here, I laughed here, I cried here, I wanted to die here, I packed my bags to run away here. So many memories that are now packed into boxes and are being shipped away to a new home. A fresh start. I touch the white walls that surround me. They look so empty. Little holes mark where my paintings and drawings once hung, years of work stripped down and carted away for someone else to use as kindling. Someone who needed the warmth. I kneel down to see if the pencil lines still marked where My Little Monster lived. They aren't there anymore. I run my fingers over the small folds of plaster than make up his face. A smile touches my lips as I remember the things I told him. All my secrets, hidden behind a layer of paint where a little plaster monster lives to hear my voice. "I'll find you again, someday. And I'll tell you " I tell him softly as the moving man comes to take away the boxes. His feet are too noisy on the hardwood floor. I glare at him as he carelessly tosses my boxed-away treasures onto a cart, he rolls his eyes in return. "I hate you," I say childishly. I don't mean it, but it feels good to say. Here I am, nineteen years old and moving out of the only home I've ever known, and I'm still not ready. Suddenly, I feel terribly frightened. What awaits me in the huge new world I'm about to discover? What if I'm not ready yet? I push these questions out of my mind as I stumble over to the last box left in the corner. I rush to open it with trembling hands, grasping two tattered, rattling toys that I hug to my chest, seeking comfort in the dull warmth. Savoring the last few moments of my childhood.