Solitude

On hearing yourself again.

I’ve moved out of the flat I share with my boyfriend in Brighton. We’re still very much together, but with an offer of a new job in London, I’ve once more relocated back to the leafy suburbs on the southeastern edge of the capital, where my parents have a flat.

My family lives abroad (as some of you may know), so this home has often sat empty. However, it’s hosted countless people in need of a last-minute crash pad in London, for varied reasons — breakups, missed trains, a quiet place to work, house moves, and even the occasional existential crisis. During the Covid-19 lockdowns, flatmates from my last house-share referred to it as “The Bunker” because whenever one of us needed to self-isolate before seeing vulnerable people, I’d give them the keys to lock themselves in it for a week.

Anyway. With this move, I’m finding an unexpected joy in solitude. It’s been a long time since I haven’t had to consider dinner for two or felt the freedom to do whatever I please in the house, at any hour I choose, without the subtle negotiation that comes with sharing a space. Living with other people has its perks, but there are also challenges — distractions from a routine I’m carefully trying to stick to, more sources of sound, and unforeseen requests (which I can’t help but read as demands when stressed).