It’s my last night in this little apartment.
Looking back at old journal entries, I realized that it was a year and a week ago that I moved the bulk of my furniture into this place. My bed, my table, my desk, my chairs. No boxes or trimmings, just the bare bones.
I didn’t live there yet. I stayed with my parents until July when I moved in after my trip to Croatia. It still felt empty because my roommate was away at the time.
Now she’s in New York for the summer, and I’m getting married and moving down the street.
This was the first place I paid for. The first little home I made mine. I shared it with a lovely person, and we made some good memories as friends. But now we both are saying goodbye to the first four walls that saw our adulthood. Or our attempts at it.
It was a lovely place.
But it was never home.
I’m not attached to it. I love it here, don’t get me wrong. I love the neighbors and the setting and the floorplan. But i always knew it was a temporary fix. These walls were rented, never owned.
No. My real home is elsewhere.
And I’ll be there soon.