I pull up my blanket from half of my body up to my neck. Some rays of the sun peek through the small gaps of the blinds I installed when I moved into the apartment, warm on my face helping my body adjust to the cold temperature in my room. Last night, I conclude today to be my rest day and I know there is no stopping me. I savour the moment I have with my bed and my warm blanket than turns even cozier in the morning. I feel my throat burn from thirstiness, and then I remember how lazy I am last night, neglecting the need of my body for water. Right now, I can settle to the fact that I am a lazy-ass girl who can’t leave her bed for her own benefit. Well, blame my bed… and pillows… and blanket… and the weather itself. I wonder how possibly it could be that my bed is a lot more comfortable in the morning than it already is. I am just so grateful that it’s my rest day today.
I stare blankly at the plain white ceiling I re-painted weeks ago. I can’t deny the fact that I am badly missing my room back home—painted in pastel blue color, with my painting materials carefully arranged on the cabinet beside the window, Kara on the bunk bed going through the stack of books I have. I miss everything back home, but I have to deal with the choices I made. My doorbell ring for three times and I hesitate for a moment if I should stand up and get the door, or just ignore it away, but in the end, I shrug the laziness away, wrap the robe around my body and head for the door.
“Good day, Isabelle.” It is kind of appalling for me to see Mrs. Bloomberg behind the door holding up a tray with pancakes on it. Mrs. Bloomberg—a woman in her fifties—is my neighbour across our apartment who, by rumours, I learn that she is living alone for almost five years already.
I widen the door opening upon recognizing her face. “Hey, Mrs. Bloomberg, what can I do for you?” I ask flashing her a bright smile.