ADVERTISEMENT
I was twenty six years old, standing in the center of an apartment that felt more like a hollow shell than a home. It was the kind of place where every sound was magnified to an uncomfortable degree—my own footsteps, the rustle of a grocery bag, even the shallow rhythm of my breathing. I owned two folding chairs, a mattress that lived permanently on the floor, and a warped coffee table I had found on the curb. That was the entirety of my living room. After exhausting my savings on the security deposit and the first month of rent, I was existing on a diet of instant noodles and sheer willpower. Furnishing the place seemed like a cruel joke, yet there was a deep, gnawing loneliness in that silence that I desperately wanted to fill.
ADVERTISEMENT