The pen felt heavier than it should have. One bedroom, twelve months, just my name at the bottom of the page.
I'd always lived with someone. A roommate, a partner, my sister's couch for four months after the breakup. There was always another signature beneath mine.
The apartment came with a junk drawer already full. Someone before me had left a spare button in a tiny plastic bag, taped to the back of a how-to guide for the thermostat. I held it and thought: someone else stood here alone too.
That morning my niece had texted me a photo from the DMV parking lot. She's learning to drive and wanted me to know she didn't stall once. I sent back a clapping emoji and felt suddenly, strangely proud of both of us.
The first night I ate cereal standing in the kitchen and the silence was so loud I almost called someone to come over.
I didn't. I washed the bowl, put it away, and sat in the living room that was only mine.
Being the only name on something is terrifying. But I'm starting to think it might also be the point.