Moving Along, Then...

Flyover and his girlfriend moved out today. Except for the miscellanea in the fridge, some battered furniture they may or may not intend to keep, and an inexplicable pile of clothing, they’re gone. I feel like I ought to be sad about this, since Flyover was the one who invited me to live here, or at least buy them a bottle of prosecco, since I’m upgrading my square footage for the duration of the lease courtesy of their desire to get out of this apartment post-haste.

But you know what? No sorrow, no prosecco.


The living room, last night.

I expected living with people to be a convivial experience, sort of like 509 but with fewer people and a less repulsive kitchen, and I wasn’t wrong. It’s just that I’d estimate that most of my socialising has been with Florida. Even during football season, when the three of us were in the same fantasy league, Flyover streamed games in his bedroom and we’d yell at each other through the wall. And when his girlfriend moved in, he was wholly subsumed into the Borg of his relationship. The two of them would go into their room, close the door, and shut out the world. And I would be disappointed, since I like both of them and didn’t see the need for insularity.

I joked with mutual friends that I never saw Flyover either, and I lived with him.


My future bedroom, this afternoon.

Eventually, it got less disappointing and more annoying, and I found myself looking forward to their move as much as they were. There were little moments when I’d remember, oh, right, we’re friends but they were rare enough that I’d always come to that same realisation, which always lead in turn to, wait, I probably shouldn’t need an active reminder that we’re friends.

To be honest, I am a little sad. But it’s because living with a friend couldn’t prevent us from drifting apart.