The movers worked efficiently. I stood near the door, coffee in hand, checking inventory and feeling the strange sadness that comes with leaving a place you outgrew before you admitted you wanted more.
By noon, the new condo was filling with boxes.
By three, the leather sectional was positioned in the living room facing the city. It was charcoal gray, low and deep, absurdly comfortable, the kind of sofa I would never have bought in my twenties because I was always saving for emergencies, real or family-manufactured. The glass dining table came next, its edges beveled and clean, six chairs tucked around it even though I rarely entertained. The custom mattress arrived sealed and heavy. The movers assembled the bed while I stood in the doorway of the primary bedroom and tried to imagine sleeping above the city without listening for footsteps, voices, demands.
The second bedroom became my office.
That mattered more than anyone later understood.