The Places You Lived

In your first apartment, you felt freedom. All of this space, all yours. You decked it out in hand-me-down furniture: your father's kitchen table from his bachelor pad, your grandmother's loveseat that was too soft for her to sit in anymore, a small desk you found on the side of the road. You lined a wall with bookshelves you put together from a kit. You had sleepovers with your boyfriend and felt like you were playing adult.

When your landlord raised your rent, you found another apartment and added your boyfriend to the lease, a decision you regretted immediately. The landlord painted bold accent walls before you moved in, allowed you both to choose the colors. There was a laundry set in the unit so you didn't have to do laundry at home anymore. Now you were an adult, you were sure.

The freedom of living away from your parents didn't translate when you shared that space with a boyfriend who grew more loathsome by the day. In your first apartment, you felt wild and free. You were an art student who went to see live music every weekend. Now you were studying too much, and he never wanted to go out unless it was for dinner. You grew fat and stagnant, both of you. The only difference was, he seemed ok with it.

You were apartment shopping before the breakup was official, but you both knew it was on the horizon. You switched your major back to something creative and found an old, hip room in an apartment house near campus. It had golden wooden floors and windows all along the wall. You could see your line of bookshelves in the living room, your shaky kitchen table in the breakfast nook. You could see yourself there, all alone.

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