Twenty-two years ago, I left without saying goodbye. I don’t remember her face anymore, only the possibility that her name was Charmaine and the circle we drew in the dirt to play diketo. This is the story of a childhood friendship that never got an ending, and the first room I unknowingly left unfinished.
Author: Unfinished Rooms
I write from the middle of things, where memory lingers like dust in corners, and healing is still in progress.
Unfinished Rooms is the space I return to, the emotional architecture of my life, half-built and still echoing.
Here, I gather the fragments. The grief. The laughter. The silence.
Here, I write lived stories.
Always raw. Sometimes tender. Never complete.
And other times, when it’s too much to feel, I escape into stories I make up.
Stories that echo my truth, even when they aren’t real.
This blog is me, making a home inside the mess.
Rebuilding, one Unfinished Room at a time.
Returning to the Blueprint
I thought growth meant leaving the house behind. Instead, it asked me to return to it. In 2026, I learned that some foundations cannot be rebuilt until you are willing to study the blueprint that created them.
Blueprints
I still build relationships using the same blueprint the house gave me: hold tightly, stay close, do not leave me.
Mother’s Lens
Like a child learning the world through the eyes of their carer, Mama taught me how to chase freedom, how to remain curious, adventurous, and soft in a world that tries so hard to harden you.
The House Was Never Finished
I grew up in a house that was never finished; rooms half-built, things installed before they could be fully used. It took me years to realise that the way we lived in that house mirrors the way my mind works. This is what ADHD feels like for me: not broken, not lazy, just built differently.
Halfway Home
There are three rooms in this building.Three small boxes stacked side by side, each one breathing in its own way. The room on the left is loud.Sometimes it’s laughter, sometimes it’s shouting — but it’s always full of sound. The woman there has a voice … Continue reading Halfway Home
The Hand That Found Mine
Sometimes I wonder when my mother started grabbing my hand every time we crossed the road. I don’t know if she always did it, or if it began after the accident. But when I think about it now, it feels like one of the earliest … Continue reading The Hand That Found Mine
It’s Always Been You
A reflection on love, presence, and the quiet places where it has always lived; in oceans, friendships, music, stillness, and light.
Till Next Time
He rests the needle on the vinyl, the soft hum filling the room. I take a sip from my glass as his hand traces the edge of my thigh. Shadows play across his face, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist. Still intimate, still ours. For now. Till next time.
The Deleted Folder
Sometimes I imagine my trauma like an iPhone.You know how when you delete something, it doesn’t go away? It simply moves to the “Recently Deleted” folder for 30 days, waiting to be permanently erased.But in my case, the folder never empties.The memories don’t expire.They sit … Continue reading The Deleted Folder
Unfinished Rooms 