I have a soft spot for very small rooms.
Not cramped, exactly. The good ones are precise. Everything has one place to be and only one place. The bed is the floor or close to it. There is a single window, and the window is the entire wall it lives in.
The smallest room I ever loved was in Tokyo, in a hostel near Shimokitazawa. It was technically a capsule but the owner had cut a small porthole window into the back wall, against fire code, I assume. Through the porthole you could see exactly one branch of one tree. I lay in there for two hours after I arrived, jet-lagged, watching the branch move.
The second was in Lisbon, on the top floor of a building so old the stairs sloped. The room had a single bed, a single chair, a single light, and a balcony just wide enough for two feet. From the balcony you could see the river if you leaned.
“Small rooms are honest. They don't pretend to be more than they are.”
The third was at home. My grandmother's spare room when I was a kid. It had a desk and a bed and a window that looked at a wall, and I think I did some of the best thinking of my life there.
Small rooms are honest. They don't pretend to be more than they are. They make you aware of how little you actually need, which is, on most days, almost nothing.