Apartment 28

I remember walking in and looking around as my stomach slowly sank. The paint was peeling, the floorboards faded. The place was considerably more weathered than I had expected. And yet, this was to be home. 

My older cousin sensed my energy and brought some of his own—he wisely advised me to "stay there for a couple of months while I found somewhere else". My sister, a few hundred kilometres away, spoke to his younger brother and they provided the voice of reason. Stay. You'll be fine. We've all done this before. 

The place was small, about 750 square feet (hush, New Yorkers, I know), and yet the quiet felt cavernous as they drove back home that day. I had Planty for company, a succulent my sister thoughtfully shipped so I wouldn't be alone. Its early demise, surprisingly, I mourned more than I thought I would. But in the 689 days between then and when I would leave 28 for the last time, it became home. 

Leaving in June 2023 was strange. I looked at these walls that had borne so much—laughter, vulnerability, grief, community. I had a strange reluctance to part with some of my furniture and household objects that had become part of my life. And yet, my sadness when leaving was coupled with deep gratitude. 

In those first few weeks, it was the quiet that got to me. I was in an apartment building, there were people all around me. I was in New Haven, community and new friends were short walks away. I had begun to host. But it was the spaces in between, where I would return after classes, and miss the pitter patter of puppy paws on floors. The constant hum of household noises running in the background. The felt but quiet sense of other humans a few doors away. The sense of my pups, my heart, a few open doors away.

What is it about our culture, I wonder, that demonises solitude to the extent that we cannot separate it from loneliness? It wasn't the quiet, you see. It was that for the first time I was alone, truly alone with me.

The warmth and laughter and light that were poured into 28's walls weren't just special because of the community that infused them. They were special because in a way, they were about me coming home to myself. 

I'd like to say that the different groups I hosted blended into each other at some point, and while that's true to an extent, there was such special, unique energy that each brought. Discussions about faith with two friends a year above me. Laughter and shoulder massages with strong women who I'm still in awe of. Being curled up on the couch with people who felt like my people musing about the happenings of the social circus that's an MBA. Confessions of crushes and budding relationships. Deep vulnerability as people peeled back the layers. My neighbour/friend popping in and out over the months, sometimes with delicious food I'd be hard pressed to duplicate (I tried). When my past came to meet my present, the gift of living not too far from one of my besties. 

That's the power of being in a new space. It allows us to rediscover ourselves and take back these new selves—look world, hi, see who I discovered I could be! It's not always perfect. I don't want it to be. I don't agree with those who say they have no regrets. I don’t agree with those who say they have no regrets. I don’t believe them—or maybe I just don’t understand. I have many. Words that can't now be said or unsaid. Presence that can't be given or taken back. But these regrets are also coupled with gratitude for the spaces and people that have held me and allowed me to grow. 

I was slow to discover the beauty of my surroundings. The sparkle of the string lights by the window as I sat on my couch with some wine or herbal tea or warm haldi dudh. And what fast became my favourite, the way the morning light would pour over my bed like warm honey. I remember so many warm moments, content moments, that were just me sitting in that space on my bed soaking up the precious sun with some coffee. It's where I learnt that I'm just a plant, really. 

This is where I first fell in love with a tree, the tree that I saw from my bedroom window first thing in the morning and sometimes last thing at night, the tree that I witnessed and photographed through different seasons, the tree that quiety witnessed me through my own. I learnt a lot from observing that tree—is it strange to miss a plant? 

My favourite date night with myself has to be the one where I laughed myself silly because I over bubbled my bubble bath, came out to cook myself some simple but delicious pasta, and watched an episode or so of a K-drama I was enjoying at the time. There were the reprieves I got from studying (yes, I had to do that too) when I hopped on my rowing machine for 5, 10, 20 minutes. That rowing machine saved my sanity and my triceps. Rest in peace, rowing machine (or in whichever basement you ended up in). There was murder basement—laundry day was never really fun, at least not the laundry part of it. I remain unconvinced that a few bodies don't lurk there. 

When did Apartment 28 become a place where the quiet made me want to crawl out of my skin to a place where every time—EVERY TIME—I walked in the door, I felt joy and gratitude and contentment? Love seeps into spaces, one small moment at a time.

And that sadness and gratitude I felt when I left was a reminder that I'll always carry that home with me.