After carrying the last box of my items up the stairs, I took a much-needed break and looked upon my new apartment. I felt like Mufasa, the queen of everything that the light touches. Yes, it was a mess, littered with bins and displaced furniture, but the feeling of freedom that was transferred to me with the handing of the keys had yet to wear off, in fact as I looked across the tiny space, I’d never felt so free. Like most people my age, I had not lived alone yet, in fact, I was lucky to get more than an hour to myself. Friends and family were always over, making noise and leaving messes. Now, of course I love them, but sometimes you just want to do your own thing, in your own house without an audience.

As I signed my lease images of my own décor gracing the walls, and my favorite songs ringing through the rooms as I lounge in pajamas for hours on end without judgement danced in my head. I won’t lie, I clearly held a very idealized picture of what the experience of living alone would be like. Not that those perks aren’t real, I did decorate the whole place to my liking, and I do listen to my own music and throw a captivating concert for an imaginary audience all the time. But that being said, I also spend many nights awake, obsessing over the odd thud or suspicious creek I heard hours earlier by the back door and contemplating calling the police just to be sure that a serial killer isn’t waiting for me outside. I also find myself wishing I had someone to come home to every night after school or work, to laugh and complain with after a long day. I didn’t expect to grow tired of having my own space especially this early into the experience.
I’m entering my 8th month of living alone and I’ve grown quite bored of myself if I’m being completely honest. I don’t know if this is a result of my “the grass is always greener” mentality, or if I’m just not cut out for the isolation. Either way, my best friend is going to move in with me in May, and she’ll just have to deal with my music taste.








