There is someone else living in our old apartment and it feels damn weird.
R and I rented an apartment for six years, from mid 2009 until mid 2015. It is what is called a 2DK here, meaning it has two bedrooms, a kitchen and a dining area, and no living room. It was on the second floor of a two floor building, smack in the middle of the row of apartments. It was a bit overpriced given its distance from any train stations, a parking space for a car wasn’t included (though you could rent it for extra) and the building had been constructed twenty years earlier, which is quite a long time here. Still, it was comfortable, and we lived there for so long it almost felt like ours.
Our current place isn’t very far away and the building is on one of the roads that we can use to cut through to a main road, so we still pass by the apartment quite a lot. For a long time, it felt downright weird to not be going inside. Whenever I walked by, even after Mr. K was born, I’d have to remind myself to not go through the gate, to not head for the letterbox and pull out the mail, and to not make my way upstairs to let myself in. It felt like I could go up there, pull open the door, and find the life I packed away a year ago still waiting inside for me. It wasn’t until early this year when they paid for the letterboxes to be replaced that it became a bit easier.
Sometime in the last month, though, some new occupants have moved in. Naturally, we have no idea who they are. I cut down the street one day on the way to the drug store and saw a moving van and the front door open. A few days later, we drove by and confirmed it – the shutters were open, curtains in the windows and there was laundry hanging outside.
It’s not our place anymore and it hasn’t been for twelve months now. Hell, it never really was. It still feels odd, though.