The scene is nothing unusual. Perhaps I am sitting at my desk—headphones in, my nose buried in Physics or German homework. Maybe I am snuggled in bed beneath layers of blankets, with my computer on my lap and a mug of tea cradled in my hands. I might even be hunched over in front of my dresser, elbows-deep in the bottom drawer looking for that pair of socks I could’ve sworn I had thrown in there last week. Either way, in every situation, I can attest that I am very much preoccupied and very much minding my own business.

So when one of family members comes barging in without knocking, perhaps I am… slightly irked. Nevertheless, it is a detail that is easily forgivable. After all, they are simply trying to move along with their own lives, and whether they need to borrow my phone charger or want to know what I want for dinner, they will always be welcome to stop by my bedroom.

However, it is after they are gone that I begin to see red.

For once they have become satisfied with the conversation and go bounding down the hall to their next destination, I will realize they have forgotten to do just one thing. A simple task, one that takes less than a moment to complete, but is essential to maintaining the peace, as well as my own sanity.

They have forgotten to shut the door.

It stands open, its gaping maw leaving me exposed, vulnerable, to the outside world. I am a simple person. I enjoy my privacy. Having my door shut makes me feel… safe. What have I done to deserve this? I wonder. Why does my family hate me so? How have I ever wronged them? It is a simple courtesy, but by forgetting it, my entire mood has grown sour.

For now, I must yank out my headphones and slither out of my desk chair, or hoist my laptop to the side, and crawl out of my perfectly warm, soft bed, or even withdraw my arms from deep within my dresser and maneuver around the precarious piles of what once were its contents, before storming over to my bedroom door and closing it myself. They were the ones who opened it. They were in that exact location only moments ago! Why must I clean up after them?

In my rage, I usually make sure to slam the door with enough force for it to be heard through the entire house, its echoes reaching the ears of the culprit at hand and making sure they are aware of their sins. I hope, in that moment, that they will truly understand the weight of their actions and vow never to be so careless again.

However, when the event repeats itself, oftentimes within the following twenty-four hours, I realize that my message never quite reached their ears.