I walk through doors I’ve never entered,
yet somehow, they know my name.
The hostel waits — unchanged and patient —
like time never dared to claim.

Familiar beds still hold old laughter,
friends frozen in eighth-grade light,
while I drift room to room,
a traveler caught between shadow and sight.

The one I loved is always missing,
a silence softer than pain.
And the one I avoid keeps showing up —
but I walk on, untouched, again.

I search for space, for a bed, a place,
but none of them belong.
Perhaps I’ve outgrown this memory,
though the walls still hum with song.

Each path I take is shifting ground,
routes reroute, new stairs appear.
Old places grow with ghostly echoes,
and still, I press forward — clear.

For I am not the girl who stayed,
nor the friend who slipped away.
I am the sum of every version
who tried, and changed, and walked away.

So let the hostel stay in dream night,
a monument to then, not now.
I carry its stories, but not its rooms —
I’m building futures anyhow.

I walk through doors I’ve never entered,
yet somehow, they know my name.