I’m buying a house with my other half.  As I cram our things into handed down boxes and aldi bags that had been discarded under the sink, I start feeling emotional. 

This is my home.  This is the place where I have spent the past two and a half years. 

It is the first space that’s been mine.  I saved up and moved in about a year into my first proper ‘grown up job’. 

It’s where I’ve had friends round, drinking countless bottles of wine and bubbles.  It’s where I spilt washing liquid up the wall attempting to be domestic when incredibly drunk. 

It’s been my shelter, when work was getting difficult, when I was frustrated, it’s always there to sit in silence with when I don’t feel like talking. 

My home has become our home.  Lingering at the doorway after being walked home on our first date, every corner speaks of our history together. 

The upstairs where we had sloppy mousakka to the sofas we bought together and welcomed our dog into our home on. 

The flat where we can always pick up that forgotten item on the shopping list, or the spotaneous meal out if something’s gone well. 

The space where I’ve staggered home from countless nights out, the home I’ve excused myself to when dates were failing. 

It’s a place that has been integral to the person I’ve become.  Every added picture, vase or painted wall, something that’s shaped my home into the space it is. 

And while I’m itching to get on with the next chapter, this is a home I won’t forget. 

As the mortar crumbles, I wonder if these are the reminders of people who have lived here before.  Perhaps our time too will be locked into the walls, becoming a familiar part of the building that someone else will soon call home.