My freshly baked cookies melt on my tongue, the fireplace burns with bright orange-yellow flames. And I’m cuddled in my blanket, the soft and feathery throw covers my legs. My relaxing music in the background plays as I check my hot chocolate, making sure it isn’t too hot and of course, it is. Hot chocolate is like the heart of this place, the gooey marshmallows melting in the protection of the warm mug. It’s almost upsetting when I’m done. There’s a warm feeling somewhere in me whenever I’m here. It’s always either my cat or the warmth of the fireplace. Why is this the only place where I feel safe? Why can I only ever be happy when I’m here? I’ll never hesitate to question myself.