It would’ve been wrong to stay uptown at my dad’s apartment, to have all that space to myself, walking in his footsteps, forever haunting that home he’d moved back to right after Mom died. So I sold it. Put the money in low-interest savings along with whatever liquid assets I inherited from Dad, minus taxes, and moved out of the three-bedroom apartment where I’d been living with friends ever since I graduated from college. And started renting the East Village studio. I could have bought something much bigger. I could have had Dad’s broker or lawyer invest the money. I could have done a thousand things differently. But I liked the tiny impersonal space, small enough that if I stretched my leg on my bed I’d be halfway to my kitchen. I loved being in that cocoon, spun of my own making.

And maybe part of me didn’t want to commit to buying even a tiny studio apartment because I was still hoping that I’d become that girl again, the one who delighted in having roommates. Or even a romantic partner.

In my last place, I’d painted my bedroom walls turquoise. I’d hung up art my friends had made and used my great grandmother’s quilt as a tapestry. I’d scoured online thrift stores for vintage furniture and had contracted my friend Gavin to build a bar cart from scratch. I’d put up violet curtains and kept a framed photograph of my mother on my bedside table.

On weekends, my friends and I would push the living room furniture out of the way and host parties, serve Aperol spritzes and quince from our bar cart, throw off our shoes and dance, invite the downstairs neighbors so they wouldn’t complain. I was always the belle of the ball; I’d create the best playlists, adapt the invite list to suit my mood.

Before work, I’d go to the gym, make myself breakfast, walk the twenty blocks to the office. At night I always had social outings, dinners with friends, dates, events my friends in fashion or PR would slip me invites to. I’d dab on red lipstick, a touch of concealer, and feel good about myself. I’d take my coffee with half-and-half and cinnamon and light candles in the bathroom whenever I had guests. Sometimes I even cooked—generous dinners with scallops and linguini, berries and real whipped cream, recipes I’d scour for on Instagram.