Three years ago I lived across the street from where I live now. I remember wondering what kind of people lived in that building because I loved it – who wouldn’t love well-maintained buildings from the 19th century? It only had four apartments and a fancy bridal store downstairs. I bet everyone in the city knew the building.
A year ago my SO and I returned from our long trip around the Americas. We started looking for apartments and I couldn’t believe our luck when I saw the building on a rental website. The rent was reasonable and the apartment looked stunning; 4-meter-high ceilings, massive rooms, fireplace and hand-painted ceiling by an almost-famous artist? I was sold.
We made a plan how to get the apartment – it was clear that it would be hard to beat a couple in their 50s. And it worked, a couple of days later we got a phone call that the apartment was ours. On one grey day in December we carried all my belongings across the street. We had a new home.
In three days, just 11 months later, I am saying farewell to this building. Ever since the day one I have absolutely loved calling this apartment my home. However, no matter how much it feels like home, a big part of the feeling vanished right at the moment when my SO returned to Australia a month ago. A home isn’t where your most beloved belongings are. Home is where the people you love the most are.
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