The Room Where I Became Real

Title: The Room Where I Became Real

They called it the Holding Room, but to me, it was where I first stopped pretending.
It was painted a dull, hospital green—cold, expressionless. The kind of place that seemed allergic to warmth. I arrived on a rain-soaked Tuesday after my mother disappeared. One moment she was humming over the gas stove, and the next, she was barefoot in the streets, shouting at invisible things. When social services took me in, they promised it was temporary. But even at twelve, I knew what that word really meant.
The Holding Room wasn’t loud. It didn’t scream its rules or welcome you with arms wide. It whispered. The girls inside didn't speak much. They just watched....measured me, perhaps. There was no manual, no introductions. You learned fast: keep your head down, don’t cry too loud, never finish your food before the others.
I said nothing for eleven days.
On Day 11, I whispered “Hi” into the air, more to myself than anyone else.
Favour, the girl on the bunk below mine, looked up. “You talk?”
I nodded.
“You’re lucky,” she said, as if talking was a luxury. “Some girls never do. Like Ngozi. Been here a year. Not a word.”
Ngozi was the quiet artist in the corner. She never looked anyone in the eye, only drew endless sketches of houses. Some crooked, some floating, none with doors.
On Day 30, a woman came to adopt. She had soft eyes and a voice that curled like velvet. She chose Uju—the girl who played the violin so beautifully it made the walls weep. Uju didn’t say goodbye.
That night, Ngozi drew two houses: one with open windows, one entirely sealed.
On Day 52, I punched a girl named Debbie. She called me “Street Leftover.”

They put me in isolation for three days, no talking, no interaction, just three silent meals and four walls. I spent the first day crying, the second one numb, and on the third, I scratched a message into the peeling paint with my fingernail.

I AM STILL HERE.
That message changed me. I didn’t just exist anymore—I insisted on it.
When I returned, Ngozi gave me a drawing. It was a small house shaped like a heart. Favour slid her biscuit across the table to me. Even Debbie muttered something close to an apology.
That was the moment I knew.....I belonged.
Not because I was accepted, but because I had stopped asking for permission to be.
The Holding Room had its own rhythm. Its own language, unspoken, sacred. A shared glance meant solidarity. A guarded silence meant trust. No one said “I love you,” but we showed up for each other in the dark. That was enough.
On Day 103, a man in a navy suit came to adopt me.
He had papers, polite smiles, and questions about school. I followed him to the door, but before I crossed the threshold, I looked back at Favour, humming softly. At Debbie combing Ngozi’s hair. At the spot on the wall where my message still lingered beneath fresh paint.
“I’m sorry,” I said gently. “I already have a family.”
And I turned back.

The Lasting Impact

That room, quiet, cracked, and hidden from the world—redefined everything I thought I knew about belonging. It wasn’t about being chosen. It wasn’t about blood or names. It was about showing up, breaking through silence, and standing your ground in a space that once swallowed your voice.
Belonging isn’t given. It’s claimed. And the day I scratched I AM STILL HERE into the wall, I claimed mine.