It’s not real until your roommate moves out.
None of the massive changes are really happening. You’re not really done with your first year of grad school. You don’t have a new job. None of it is real. Not until half of your apartment is completely empty.
It’s sad. And strange. And spacious.
And suddenly you remember the beginning of the year when it was just like this. All your stuff was here, but she wasn’t. Or maybe all her stuff was here, but you weren’t just yet. Either way, some pieces were missing.
Now the end is the beginning. So says the emptiness.