Our living room is mismatched and haphazard, barely an upgrade from the quarters you’d expect of students on a limited budget, happy to have furniture that’s functional. A hanging dress rack is pushed up against the far wall, my roommate’s wardrobe a tell-tale sign that someone occupies the living room. A pile of bedding sits carelessly on a plain futon that is draped with an unfitted sheet, limp and faded teal; the futon is twice a hand-me-down even after a friend’s cousin rescued it from a street in New York City. Otherwise, though, the room is tidy enough, and the blonde wood IKEA table that serves as our dining table is a very acceptable place to work, clean and uncluttered. The space is open and bright with the lights of the kitchen adjacent.