Everyone you meet opens a room inside you.

Some rooms are filled with light.
Some are rearranged without asking.
Some are left unfinished — doors half open, walls still raw.

None of them disappear.

They stay with you.
Quiet. Unresolved.
Shaping how you trust, how you react, how you love, how you pull away.

No one new meets you untouched.
They enter a house built long before them.

They walk through spaces they didn’t create.
Trip over things they never placed.
Feel echoes they can’t explain.

The more aware you become of your own rooms,
the less you punish others for what was already there.

So let people enter.
Let them move something.
Let them reveal what still needs your attention.

And remember:

This is still your house.
Your rooms.
Your keys.