Maybe it was the squareness of it. The coldness of it. It just couldn't feel like home. That's why I spent hundreds of dollars and several hours and ideas to make it more cozy. I added mirrors to add extra light to the living room/kitchen. I had Jeff put up his picture frames on the wall. I bought furniture that would fill the void. I bought a beautiful new lamp that to this day I adore (and it pains me to leave it behind). I was even planning on getting curtains for the main living room window!
Maybe it was the grey bluish color of the walls. Or the limited space of it. Or maybe that I was too close to my parents. Or the landlady. For any reason, it was hard to feel at home here. It took me several months to get used to the idea that this was now my house. My home.
Once I moved back with my parents, I felt like this suite was more home than my parents' (where I had lived for almost 2 years). Slowly, I started feeling more comfortable at my parents and started to let this place go.
But now that I am helping Jeff move away and pack everything up, I feel like this place never felt right. For one reason or the other, this place seemed indifferent to my presence here. Am I actually going insane by thinking this? Have you ever felt out of place in a new house?
It never grew on me. So this weekend I don't have a problem saying bye to it. Jeff is moving out and I won't see this place in the inside anymore. It's a relief, I think. I put a lot of hope on this place. A lot of dreams, a lot of plans. But this place doesn't represent those goals anymore. It's just an empty room.
It always was.