I miss my little Parisian apartment. I miss the big windows in my bedroom and living room that opened up wide to the boisterous street noise outside. I miss looking out of them, seeing the rooftops and the busy street below and feeling like I was a part of a fairytale. I miss the kitchen, big enough for just one, with its red toaster and hidden washing machine. I miss the hustle and bustle of coming home from a 2:00AM bus, running up the narrow four flights of stairs and being greeted by not a person, but by my silent, still apartment—my cozy bed and the quiet nighttime street sounds.
I miss the little man playing the accordion at the bottom of my building, the harsh notes making their way through my windows. I miss running across the street to the bakery, being greeted with a high pitched “Bonjour!” from the little blonde girl working at Atelier 116, and buying my morning croissant to go with my eggs and coffee.
I miss the days where it would rain, and I would trap myself in my little apartment, watching the drops slide down the glass; just me, myself and my thoughts.
I miss inviting friends over for wine and cheese parties, providing the perfectly hand-crafted French baguettes, before a night spent out at the clubs.
I miss the excitement of upcoming travel. Planning when to go where, what to see, what to eat. I miss the overnight buses, the 3:00AM layovers, the 18-person hostel rooms. I miss people-watching from coffee shops, sight-seeing and learning about new ways of life.
It all made me feel so alive. Independent and well. Living my best life, with open-minded people from all over the world, with my apartment to hole up in by myself, with responsibility held to me and only me—for only me.
What wouldn’t I give to go back?
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