I flopped down on Audrey’s bed and looked around her room in awe. It was huge. The carpet was clean, fluffy, and white. There was a desk made of wood, painted white, with a Macbook computer glowing on top of it.

But the part I loved was the Wall. The rest of the walls were painted a crisp white. But one of the walls, Audrey had covered with photographs. Photographs of all sorts of things, of people smiling and laughing, of beautiful landscapes and cities, of random mundane objects most people wouldn’t think to take a picture of, of Audrey herself.

“Wow, these are amazing.” I got up and went over to the wall, running my hand along the pictures.

“Thanks, it was the one part of my room that my parents actually let me decorate my own way. They pretty much hate it.”

“How could they hate it? It beautiful, one of the most creative things I’ve ever seen.” Then I saw one picture that I recognized. Audrey had taken it just a couple days before. It was of me.