Oh, my dear 532...
It is surreal to accept that this is the last night we spend together. I type this as I sit on your bare carpet, with its resurgent dark spots and worn-out, high-traffic areas. There isn't much left to move out, yet it feels like a colossally difficult task I'll have to face in the morning. I type this as I sit here and question every decision that has led to me losing you.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on you: December 24th, 2016. I walked in knowing you were the bare bones of what would become a robust, delightful, lively home. My home. The place that would become haven and refuge to my often troubled spirit. The place where I would be able to laugh hysterically, sob audibly, sing loudly, curse unreservedly, cook adventurously, dance wildly, dream vividly, and hope defiantly. You, 532, were everything I had ever wanted in my first home: style and functionality, character and efficiency, cuteness galore. And with every year, as I added more pictures, more decor, and more plants, I knew you were slowly transforming into a direct reflection of my heart, a heart that cherishes beauty, joy, independence, and the warm afterglow of being loved.
532, you are a fountain of comfort, a fortress of joy, a shrine to my self-reliance, and a sanctuary of my faith. So it is with profound sadness that I write this, knowing we don't have much time left together.
It hurts. I am thoroughly heartbroken, and I realize that it must seem so vain, so utterly shallow to be thus attached to a physical place, to ache for it as if it were a person. I realize how difficult--truly difficult--this year has been for some people, and how my problems are nothing in comparison with the obvious monumental crises the world faces today. Yet I can't help to feel this grief taking over me, washing up the shores of my very soul. I do know I am rather dramatic, but it is what I feel... as if I've just lost one of the most important pieces of the puzzle that makes me who I am. It is in this place that I learned to look at the mirror honestly and face the brutal truths about myself that I had been avoiding. It is here that I slowly began to recognize the core of what makes me who I am. It is within these walls that I finally dared to embrace the mess that I am and waltz around with myself. Here, life forced me to befriend myself and fall in love with myself despite all the reasons I found to not. All of that happened in here, 532.
And when the world was wrong, broken, cruel, or indifferent, there was always the allure of 532. This apartment always felt like a warm hug waiting for me at the end of a long day, like a favorite grandmother who waits for you to come home with a tray of your favorite cookies and a cup of tea. Who wouldn't want to come home to such a place?! The magic was not hidden from visitors, either. There was always something inviting and cozy about you, 532. It was like living in a pillow fort all the time.
I don't want to leave. I begged for a miracle for so long. Alas, it was not meant to be. God has determined that I must leave and that this beautiful space is for someone else. So I just want to say: thank you. For being a physical space that allowed me to breathe in so deeply that I feel I took root. Thank you for giving me room to be my own person, however loud or quiet, happy or sad, rageful or peaceful. Thank you for being shelter for my body and a balm for my soul. Thank you for being so beautiful that it made my heart swell with pride to call you home. Thank you for being Cafe Cristina. Thank you for being the best nightclub-for-one. Thank you for being with me through the countless tears that no one else saw. Thank you for being the best audience for my constant stand-up comedy special. Thank you for being the most Catholic apartment in the world. Thank you for becoming the home I had been needing my entire life.
I love you, 532. I will never forget what you meant and how you made my life so much better. I hope your next tenant will show you some loving. And I hope that I'll be able to feel the same way about a place again.
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