Living in an apartment requires much more adulting than living in the dorms. I have to carry my groceries from the car, up the stairs, and usually a few items bounce out along the way (probably because I am trying to make it in one trip). 

I have to think about my noise level since I’m on the 5th floor and have families and working professionals surrounding me. I make the long trek down 5 floors to get to the lobby every morning with Coco, so we can take a run and she can take a pee. 

I cook dinner in the evenings, with a real stove and burners, and pay the utility bills. When something breaks, I have to fix it or figure out how to find someone who can. When my packages get lost, I have to track them down. When the fire alarm goes off (which it does over and over and over again), I can only pretend I don’t hear it and wonder if this time it might actually be real. 

Awkward elevator rides are also new. In the dorms, everyone knew everyone, or at least we all knew of each other and could strike up a conversation. But in the apartment elevator, I must behave properly and address strangers with a polite nod or a kind hello. 

But then I look over the view of the city and the sun sets in the background and the rain gently hits the window panes, and I am thankful for my sanctuary.