My bed with its covers has been my safe haven for as long as I can remember. It has given me a steady support to hold on to when I was learning to take my first steps, those tiny hands held on to the then giant wooden legs like a lifeline. I was afraid I would fall, it didn't let me. My dad used to cuddle me and my mother together on the covers, his arms were like a shield - tough, protective, but unnaturally soft when it came to us. We don't share the same bed anymore, but his side is still an empty space neither me nor my mum will be able to fill quite soon. I remember coming from the late night tuitions and throwing myself on the bed sheets, the poor old wooden frame shook tremendously for those few moments - I swear I heard it crack under pressure somewhere, but it stood strong nonetheless. And I drifted off to sleep again. The nights I felt my heart caving in and tears welling up inside my eyes, I screamed, I cried, I banged my head against the bed, I punched the frame, and tore away the sheets, i pressed my face into the pillows and wept. No one heard me then. Except you. Even now if I spend my nights somewhere else, I'm still not able to have a peaceful sleep. Maybe because I associated the words "peace", "sleep" and "home" with my bed alone. I'm laughing as I write this, and I hear you squeaking. My bed has witnessed parts of me that even I myself fail to fathom at times. It's my own safe haven.