Hey first apartment,
Our time together is coming to a close, which feels unreal. It seems like we were just getting to know each other! I mean, do you remember how this all started?
Jeanne (my roommate) and I didn’t really see you all that well before we decided to spend our junior year together. As I recall, the people you were with two Novembers ago neglected to open the door at the time of our showing. So our landlord, committed as he was, proceeded to unlock the door and pry it open as much as he could (about two inches) with the chain latching it shut from the inside. We each took turns peaking in. The living room looked spacious. We put the deposit down.
There was some space between us after that. Hunter (my brother) helped me move my belongings in at the end of May, a sweltering 70-degree day interspersed with air-conditioned U-Haul rides and classic rock radio stations. It was part of a pre-negotiated trade deal. I agreed to help him move out of his Amherst house that morning, and he agreed to help me move into my apartment later that afternoon. Everyone won, except for my muscles which had not experienced any degree of physical labor in months, and my patience that was thinning as the day progressed. My mom was able to foresee potential tension, so she gave me a bag of peanut butter M&Ms to keep nearby in case either of us got hangry. They came in clutch.
All of my furniture was moved in by about 5:30 p.m., which was cutting it close to the time that the U-Haul had to be returned. Hunter left promptly after everything was unloaded so that we wouldn’t get charged extra fees for it being late. I was left alone in this unknown shell of a place, some scattered furniture left for me to arrange. Around the same time, a thunderstorm broke the humidity outside. It felt cinematic. It was like the universe telling me, “Soph! You’re growing up and you’re all by yourself and I’m going to make sure you don’t forget it!” From the living room window, I watched the puddles gather on the concrete. I felt like I could cry, but I didn’t. I connected my phone to my speaker, cranked Beach House, and ate a Doordashed burrito with my legs criss-cross-applesauce on the carpet. Then I slept on a bare mattress on the floor.
I’ve grown since then. We’ve grown together. For example, I have a bed frame now.
But some things never change. The showerhead is still level with my neck so I have to duck when I wash my hair (think: Elf), the door handle to the pantry still falls off when the door slams shut, imprisoning my dry goods until I fetch some tools to pry it open, and the UPS drivers still leave my packages with my neighbors instead of me (even when notes are taped to my door with explicit instructions of where to drop it off). But it’s the best place for me to be. Really. Truly.
When Jeanne and I are both procrastinating our homework, I am able to melt into the soft brown chair that used to occupy the corner of my grandmother’s living room and watch Grey’s Anatomy while munching on warm chocolate chip cookies. It’s so wholesome. And if she’s doing work in her room (watching who knows what on YouTube) she’ll call me in if there are any funny parts.
The refrigerator door closes now (which was an issue for the first few months), but the sink and shower drains still take forever to actually drain. It is not from a lack of trying. One time I came home from class and found Jeanne in full plumber mode: sleeves rolled up, a slew of concoctions lined up by the bathtub, a variety of tools at her disposal. In all honesty, improvements were made.
Things have been pretty solid between us for the past few weeks, first apartment. But our good streak was interrupted when I received this text message from Jeanne while driving back to Amherst after a rowdy weekend in Nashville. It read, “Okay so you know how a couple weeks ago I could not get into the apartment – well last night I could not get out of the apartment – like could not leave and had to go through the window.”
As of now, the front door does not work. I have felt like a burglar in my own home for the past few days. My bedroom window is the only mode of entrance. And exit. I was going to empty the trash yesterday, but I thought that chucking a large bag out the window would make me look like the Grinch stealing Christmas. So I decided to wait until the door is fixed.
You’ve taught me a lot: how to be independent, how to be a team player, and how to laugh through unfortunate circumstances. I might not seem like it, but this is a love letter. This is a thank you note, and this is knowing that you’ll hold a place in my heart for years to come.
Take care,
Sophia
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