Pending paperwork, I will move into my new house in one month’s time. When my realtor delivered the news, I promptly burst into tears. The Sister interpreted it as ecstatic joy; The Bestest Friend asked if I was reacting from nerves; The Kid remained clueless and aloof, as per usual. I am refraining from calling the parents until I can hold my shit together because my mom would immediately recognize that something is wrong. The only one who understood what was going on in my head was Work Boyfriend, again as usual, which was nice to get that from someone, even if him.

I was crying because I will never spend my mid-twenties living in Paris.

Which is completely ridiculous, as far as reasons to cry go, especially because I knew this was coming and it’s my choice, and I like my life and job here. Paris would probably never happen anyway … but now the option is gone. I had plans. My life was supposed to be so awesome. Glamorous and saturated with stories to tell my grandchildren. It was supposed to be Paris. But it’s not, and it’s my choice; I just need a few days to compose and breathe and adjust.

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