After nineteen days, my room at Perlman looked almost the same as when I first met it. Sure, maybe we moved a bunk between then and now, but my three roommates’ and my items were stuffed back into our suitcases, just as they were when we got there. The beds were bare; no more sleeping bags, blankets, fitted sheets, or stuffed animals. The shelves were empty; it was weird to see them naked after being so eclectic and haphazard for nearly three weeks, survivors of early-morning outfit dilemmas. The sink said goodbye to the skincare, hairbrushes, and towels that accompanied it for so long. It was almost like we were never there at all. 

But we were, of course. And we weren’t just there. 

When I first walked into my room, one of my roommates had beaten me there. After introductions, we decided some home improvements were necessary. We moved our second bunk from the middle of the room to lie against an opposite wall, opening up our floor space considerably. Hailing from Arizona, I underestimated the fierce humidity of a Pennsylvania summer. After the two-minute job, my forehead glistened, and my straightened hair found its natural pattern again. Regardless, that was the first moment the room became ours. I slept in the very bunk we moved. 

That first night, I only immediately succumbed to sleep because I had been up since five that morning; otherwise, the bed felt unfamiliar. My view from the bed was new. The sheets, duvet, and pillow had been delivered to camp by Amazon. I had only met my roommates that afternoon. I couldn’t remember where I had plugged in my phone. My roommates and I were still learning each other’s habits. We bumped into each other at the sink and coordinated shower time. Everything felt foreign. 

However, after a couple of days, I knew which roommates preferred to shower in the morning and which at night. When we were all getting ready in the morning, we weaved around each other like skilled dancers. We knew each other’s moves like we had performed a thousand times before. When we returned to our bunk after long, fulfilling days, the familiar scene of our room beckoned us to repose. 

But still, after nineteen days, my room at Perlman looked almost the same as when I first met it. My three roommates’ and my items were stuffed back into our suitcases, just as they were when we got there. The beds were bare, but they remembered the sleeping bags, blankets, fitted sheets, and stuffed animals that once adorned them. The shelves were empty, but they remembered how they once dripped with clothes. The sink could still smell the soap that it had once been friends with. We were there; the room had lived with us for nineteen days.

Though the room held memories of us, it was as empty as when we moved in. Though it had become so familiar, it was like we were never there at all. 

Except, one thing was different from the day we moved in. The smallest detail the people after us may miss: there was a considerable amount of floorspace. The second bunk lay against the opposite wall, instead of in the middle of the room.