Dearest apartment,

You served me well. I found you in a time of need and post-graduate uncertainty. But as I settle into a brand new apartment with the same roommate, I revel in the bitter-sweetness of the entire ordeal.

I picked you for your centrality and proximity to thriving Chinatown/Kensington Market. I picked you because I thought I’d be freelancing for a lot longer than I did. I picked you because you were cute. You were sight unseen by my roomie, but miraculously she trusted me and we moved quickly to snare you. Snare you, we did. But now, as you know, I have moved on.

Moving into you was an adventure. It was a balancing act of moving out of one apartment, putting everything in storage, flying to Calgary, coming back, crashing with a friend, waking up on a Tuesday after Labour Day to start my first real job, then coming home to you. This all occurred in a matter of four days. You were madness from the beginning.

So much happened in you: Your walls were climbed and stripped from too many art pieces. Your tiled floors seemed to be permanently covered with dried spinach and kale. Your rooftop was littered with make-outs. Your freezer once housed gluten-free, vegan pineapple ice cream, which, I can now admit, was a low point in the year and a half’s adventures.

You were small, but we didn’t care. We live in a condo now, and being comfortable with limited space in Toronto is an asset. You forced together slumber parties that could have just been slumbers. You made pre-drinking an intimate affair and a bonding experience.

Dear apartment, I loved you and even though you were a source of struggle at times, you were always in on the jokes. You didn’t pretend to be anything but what you were. Even when we had someone break in, you were very chill about it–just letting them take my laptop and casually admitting that the video camera in the hallway was a dummy. Maybe you were too chill. I need an apartment that takes our relationship a little more seriously.

My current beau has a lockable mailbox just for our unit and a dignified garbage chute that also takes in recycling and compost.

As you and I carry on with our new respective tenants and dwellings, I’ll remember both the good times and the struggles. Sometimes the struggles were REAL and, eventually, they became too much to handle. But it’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all. It’s better to have lived in (and left) a charming apartment above a perfume shop when you’re twenty-three than to never experience the amazingnesss that is a two-minute walk to Cold Tea, 24-hour Chinese food access, and being a regular at a cheese shop.
It’s not you. It’s not me. It’s us. And it really is for the best.

Heart,
Danielle