I realized I never documented my move. I never wrote Astoria a letter to tell her the ride was wild and fun, and I’ll never forget her. I never told my favorite memories of my apartment that I shared with Kayla for two years. That we moved in with four suitcases, plastic utensils, and two lawn chairs. That we had cockroaches the size of cell phones, anal landlords, a mouse, and a burglar. That the scary was balanced with the bottles of wine and movie marathons on the weekends, dance parties to Diddy, long conversations snuggled in bed, romantic meals, and so much growing up. Because that’s what you’re inevitably forced to do when you have a piece of paper that says you learned, the land you live on is foreign and strange, and you wake up early, put on nice clothes and suddenly have money getting wired into your bank account.
We grew up and grew out. I’m happy where I am now, and so is Kayla. But I miss her and I know she misses me. Together we don’t miss Astoria, but we will always and forever talk about what it did for us.
