I’ve lived in this building for almost a year, one of my longer residences since I moved to New York for college ten years ago. It’s the first time I’ve lived by myself, which is low-key my favorite feature of the space. The apartment itself is clean and boring, nothing even close to Instagram worthy. I have a kitchen and a bathroom and a bedroom with a door, more than I’ve ever had to myself before. But I have zero outside space, not even a tiny balcony, and since I’ve always been a seriously dedicated, bordering-on-overzealous plant enthusiast, it’s a major downside.

So I filled the interior with plants that don’t require a ton of sunlight, and I spend more than I’d like to admit on fresh flowers from the farmers’ market each week. But my soul still itches for a backyard, or even a patio. Growing up in Southern California, outdoor space was plentiful and I always found solace in the garden of my parents’ home. It’s one of the only things I’ve missed since I moved to the East Coast.

“Now you’ll never be able to afford anything with a yard,” I mutter to myself as I finally reach my front door, sweaty and out of breath. You’d think after climbing these stairs every day for a year, I’d be in better shape. You would think.

I place my bottles of wine in the fridge, tearing into both the Cheetos and M&M’s, alternating handfuls of each in some disgusting sort of salty/sweet, cheese/chocolate rotation. Kicking off my shoes, I unzip my skirt and flop onto my sofa.

Really, as far as New York City living situations go, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Shit, I’ve been in a hell of a lot worse. But when I moved into this apartment, a guaranteed promotion was on the horizon. So while it was a bit of a stretch budget-wise, I thought it’d be a short-term stretch. Now even if I find a new job, I have no idea how I’ll continue to afford this place.

I swing my feet up onto the coffee table, wishing I’d thought to pour myself a glass of wine before sitting down. Technically, my lease is up in a couple of weeks. And technically, if I want to get out of student loan debt any time before retirement, I should probably move. Again. But the thought of packing up another apartment, lugging boxes down five flights of stairs to a double-parked rented van, makes me want to puke up my stomach full of sugar and processed cheese. I unlock my phone and re-download the roommate-finding app I’ve used in the past. But even the simple act of logging in to my dormant account makes me want to curl up in a ball and take up permanent residence on this couch.