38 Sloane
January 2019
The West Village on a Sunday morning in January is cold and quiet.
I tip the movers and thank them before making my way back inside. As I step into my new apartment, I’m greeted by the scent of fresh paint, still lingering in the air. It’s a cozy little space, just over four hundred square feet, but it’s mine. For the first time, it’s just me, and the idea of living alone feels both liberating and daunting.
I stand in the middle of the room, since there’s only one, shivering from more than just the chill in the air. The echoes of Ethan still resonate in my heart. It’s only been about a month; the end of us is a raw wound that hasn’t fully healed yet. I wonder if it ever will.
First loves are funny like that. They’re the ones that introduce you to everything and teach you how to love, in the same way that they teach you how to hurt and how to heal. No matter how hurt you are though, you’ll never hate them, and depending on who you ask, in ways you’ll still love them. I’d like to think that I taught him the meaning of unconditional love, while he taught me how to love myself.
The apartment is tiny, but it’s a canvas for my new life. I see potential in every corner, a chance to rebuild and redefine myself. It’s my haven, my sanctuary, a place to heal, to grow, to rediscover who I am without Ethan. I didn’t realize how much of myself I lost in him until the other night when I sat down to read. I couldn’t remember the last time I picked up a book, let alone did anything for myself that wasn’t Ethan, Lauren, or work related. This is a new chapter in my life, one in which I’m finally the main character.
As I begin to unpack the boxes, I can’t help but tear up. The city starts to wake up outside of my window, and I take a deep breath and tell myself that I can do this. I can thrive on my own, and these boxes and this apartment are a reminder that I already am.