“So this is it.” I said as I looked around our empty college apartment. My sister, our other roommate, and I had just finished taking all of our belongings to our new apartments and were ready to drop of our keys at the front office desk downstairs.
The apartment unit, which sat across from the university where I had completed my Master’s degree, had served as the place where I stayed the longest in the region of California below the Grapevine.
As I walked to the front door I couldn’t help but be filled with some conflicting feelings. I knew it was definitely time to move out. It felt very awkward working full-time in the first “real” job in my career while many of my neighbors carried book bags and rode skateboards to their classes. However, I also felt a little attached to the college-esque dwelling after staying there for the past three years.
I would always remember the apartment as the place where we first brought home our adopted cat with the attitude problem and threw a cat birthday party to celebrate; the parking garage where we tried to bring back the razor scooter craze from the 1990’s; and the place where friendships with people from all over the world were made and forced to endure a dysfunctional murder mystery party.
I wouldn’t miss the loud nights caused by drunken college kids pulling the fire alarm for laughs, but I would reminisce all of the memories made with my amazing friends and family.
I left the apartment that day knowing that nothing would every really be the same again, and that it was mostly a good thing. The residents of that old apartment unit were all grown up. We were moving out and moving on to bigger and better things.