When I was four, and moved to a new place, my parents told me I could choose any room in the entire house. Of course I picked the master bedroom, thinking I was getting the best deal. (Little did I know that they were adding on bigger master bedroom, I still feel like I was cheated.) Over the next fourteen years I slowly built my own world within the four walls. Turquoise paint, clear french doors, and a million Jonas Brothers posters went up. The doors became hurricane proof and the Jonas Brothers became high school dance pictures and funny lyrics. The fence outside my window was painted and covered in lanterns and glowing stars. The teddy bears and dolls on my bed became cluttered books and clothes. Slowly bookshelves were added and filled with literature and poetry, and hooks were nailed and filled with hanging purses and shopping bags. My own little world where I cried at my failures and smiled at my accomplishments. Where I wrote all of my music, and taught myself to play piano. Where my middle school friends and I shared secrets, while my mom eavesdropped through the crack between the door and its frame. Where my high school friends and I cried over broken hearts and Project Runway finales, and where we screamed with joy over college acceptances and laughed until we couldn't breath. Where my sister slept on the floor when she was too afraid to sleep alone. Where my dog had her first bath and where my fifteenth birthday party got out of hand. Where I stood in the doorway with teary eyes and waved goodbye to my childhood as a dragged my final suitcase over the carpet onto the wooden hallway floor.As I remember all the mismatched items that share the space in my bed room due to the never ending phases of growing up, I realize that this world will be passed on to another young girl, who will reconstruct it into her own. She’s waited this long to finally get the “big room” (With a private bathroom of course, very important for a preteen.) She won’t remember all of the times it was her sanctuary to complain to me, or get my advice, or even when it was the only place she could go at two in the morning when a nightmare scared her out of her sleep. She won’t remember the french doors being blocked by bookshelves so she wouldn’t come in and sleepwalk into the canal at night thanks to my paranoid mother. She might not remember the times I forced her to sit and let me experiment makeup looks on her small face. Instead, she will remember it as her own teenage angst, and her own memories, with her own friends. The four walls will watch a new string of changing phases and another girl grow into a strong person. They will observe new secrets, new tears, and new memories. And it will be ok.