I look around, peering into the shadowy corners of the small, dark room. Sparsely furnished, and with a chill on the air, one could be forgiven for thinking that I’m talking about a jail cell, but no.

Just my home.

Things surround me. Not much furniture, but plenty of drying (and dirty) laundry is scattered around, hanging precariously from multiple surfaces. I’ve managed to contain the ever-increasing number of rubbish bags in a small spot beside the fridge. Extension cords snake around the perimeter walls, providing power to places the electrician didn’t expect it would be needed. My bed is folded up in a corner of the room, and will stay there until I can’t bear my tiredness any longer.

It is simultaneously the fullest and the emptiest home I’ve ever lived in.