When I first moved in with my boyfriend, I felt like I no longer had a place. I felt like everything in our apartment was his; all I had was a bathroom and my bookshelves.
Did I blame him at first? Absolutely.
Was it his fault? Absolutely not.
He had lived by himself for something like 3 years, and I had lived alone for about a year. We had both collected our own things over those periods of time, but mine were all hand-me-downs. Rightfully so, we moved most of his stuff into our new place. When I walked in for the first time at then end of move-in day, I thought ‘Well, it looks like I just stay here on weekends.’
I’ve gotten upset about it more than once.
To think that all I have are my bookshelves? Are you kidding me?
I realized, after 6 months, that my books are the most magical things here.
Words are pure magic, and so are the souls who put those words on paper.
I’ve gotten braver over the years, and I know now, that no matter what happens in my life, I can get through it. No matter who walks in or out of my life, I can handle it. Whatever stones are thrown at me, I can handle them.
But only if I have books!
Our apartment is great, and I shouldn’t need things to feel at home. There are things of mine here. Home is a who, not a what.