It was the post college haze, that liminal space between structured academia and the uncharted territory of “real life.”
I lived in a cramped apartment with two roommates, the kind of place where the furniture didn’t match and the walls were stained with stories we’d never know. We worked odd jobs (barista shifts, freelance gigs, a stint at a bookstore that smelled like dust and dreams) and spent our nights chasing laughter in dive bars or sprawled on a rooftop, counting stars we couldn’t name. Time felt elastic then, like it could stretch forever without snapping.
What made it so hard to say goodbye wasn’t just the simplicity, though that was part of it. It was the sense of potential humming beneath every moment. Every conversation felt like it could spark a revelation, every friendship like it might last a lifetime.
The world was wide open and I was naive enough to believe I could grab it all. We could travel everywhere, write something brilliant, fall in love a dozen times over.
There were no mortgages, no 401(k)s, no creeping dread of routine. Just the raw, messy beauty of being young and untethered.
Saying goodbye wasn’t easy. It never is when you’re leaving something that shaped you. But I’ve learned that closing one door doesn’t erase what was behind it. That phase lives in me still, a warm memory I can visit without needing to stay. And maybe that’s the trick: to honor what was, while making room for what’s next.
The Social Pie Network! 