A door is privacy. It means, “I am here. I am sleeping. I am working. Respect my presence behind the door.” It means that I am focused. That I am alone. That I am having a discussion. It means that I am deep in my thought process. And most importantly, I control this space.

And yet.

When I was young, I shared a room with my sister. She was probably 3 or 4, and I was only a year older. We were both scared of nighttime monsters, and so we would calm each other down. “I am here,” I said. “I am here,” she said. At least we would both be eaten.

But eventually as our parents upgraded the house, we got our own rooms. Separated by a bathroom where we would rush into each other’s room declaring each other’s names. But if my sister left my room without closing the door, I would yell and scream until the door slid all the way closed.

In college was the only time that a door didn’t exist. I first lived in a quad, literally three other girls and myself. Then in an one bedroom apartment with two girls where I had my bed and desk in the living room, one had both her desk and bed in the bedroom, and another had a desk in the living room and her bed in the bedroom. Then the next year, we somewhat upgraded—I had the living room and she had the bedroom where the bathroom was located. But we went in and out each other’s lives with no door.

And since then, a door.

What would a life without a door be like? To know that your fellow members were nearby within reach. To hear the snores. To hear the gossip. To be entwined in a way that we would never know. I am often at peace during the day when in crowds. Especially in public spaces. I am in my own world, but there are people around me. But then when I want to be away from prying eyes, away from eavesdropping ears, and warm bodies, I crave a door. I crave an environment that is wholly my own. As I sleep into my bed, it is silent and controlled the way I want it. Even the noise from the busy streets don’t pierce the space that I have created.