The thing about my closet is that my room is the size of a closet. I barely fit in it, so imagine cramming four girls in there—three of which are the height of Amazonians and have long, gangly limbs. I have to dodge Natasha’s wayward elbow.

“This is cozy,” Anouk says.

She must mean small because my room is not cozy warm. It’s a glorified walk-in freezer. There are no heating vents and my window is drafty. Most nights, I fall asleep to the sound of my teeth chattering.

And the downstairs neighbor screaming at the TV in German.

But if we’re speaking figuratively, my room is very cozy and warm and inviting. Not that I’m inviting many people into my tiny bedroom Or, really, any people, for that matter. But I’ve worked really hard to make the little space I have feel like a home. A sheet of pastel florals on the wall. A string of fairy lights along my headboard. A fluffy white duvet with a mountain of pillows and a heating blanket. An apple cinnamon candle that smells like my childhood home.

“This is your closet?” Natasha stares at the clothing rack in disbelief—the same way I did when I saw it sitting on the sidewalk with a FREE sign taped to it.

“There’s more stuff in my dresser, but I don’t think disco pants and leggings are appropriate for the Ragnar Estate.”

“You would be correct,” Paloma says before they start picking apart my small wardrobe, like this is an episode of What The Hell Was She Thinking: Fashion Edition. And while I’m sure someone thinks that twenty Christmas sweaters is excessive, I am definitely not that person.

“You love an a-line skirt,” Anouk says.

“And a chunky heel,” Paloma adds.

“Which isn’t bad,” Natasha says.

“But it’s nice to have a few different things to shake it up.”

They’re trying to be helpful, but that doesn’t mean the comment doesn’t sting. I don’t have access to designer clothes and I’m not gifted free samples. I’m limited to what I can find secondhand at thrift stores, which is hit or miss.

“This.” Natasha holds up a black dress with a high neckline. I don’t wear it often. I only got it because there’s this belief that every girl should own a little black dress.

“No.” Joey’s voice sends a chill through my already ice-cold room. She pushes herself through what little space is left. I dodge another elbow and a leg. I swear they’re trying to box me out of my own bedroom. “She’s going to a Christmas party, not a funeral.”

It stings.

I’m not sure it’ll ever stop.

“This,” Joey finally says.