“There’s a hole on the side of your head,” he says looking at me discerningly. There’s water streaming in my ear.

“No, that’s a chicken pox scar,” I say confidently, rinsing shampoo out of my hair.

“No,” he replies holding up a soapy finger. “That’s not a pox mark.”

“Yes it is. I’ve had it forever; I can’t believe you never noticed.”

“Heather, it’s a scab. It looks like you picked your face.”

I stop for a moment, letting the warm water run down my shoulders. I think about the current state of my forehead and remember that bananas underground pimple I smugly popped a few days earlier.

“Oh yeah, I picked it.”

We do our almost choreographed shower dance to switch places so that he is now under the water, and I am left out in the cold to shave my legs.

“I guess maybe we are ready to live together,” he says nonchalantly. “It feels more normal to be together than apart.”

The Gillette Turbo stops halfway up my calf…are we?

*******

Is that how you know? When being together in the most mundane way feels more comfortable together than apart?

I wouldn’t know.

Yes, I lived with a boyfriend for two and a half years; but our cohabitation sprang from necessity, not an organic feeling that arose in a Monday night shower.

My former boyfriend and I had distance working against us. Coupled with his erratic touring schedule, moving in together seemed to be the only way to maintain a relationship, at 23 and 25 years old, respectively.

Don’t get me wrong, my ex-boyfriend and I had a blast during the time we shared a lease. My favorite romantic roommate memory was a winter day, when we lived in Denver together; it was the only snow day I have ever experienced. We spent the day watching movies, building the tiniest balcony snowman, accidentally eating a pound of SEE’s chocolates, and ended in me hysterically trying to teach him basic ballet positions because I declared that he had perfect turnout.

Despite the perfect memories I’ll never forget, we were just playing house, as many early twenty-somethings in love do. It was both emotionally taxing and comforting to cope with the strains that come from living with another human before you’re fully baked. We both grew as people, learning from each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and leaning on each other in a way that only a couple who shares a living space can understand. But, at the same time, it also brought out the worst sides of us; the parts that took on too much; the parts that just weren’t ready to handle the complexities that come from compromise, intimacy, and financial organization.

Two and a half years after he moved out of the apartment I still live in today, am I ready to do it all over again? Am I capable of the responsibility that comes with that level of commitment?

I don’t believe my past relationship, or living situation, was a failure in any way, but I was put in a position to initiate its undoing. Moving out is much harder than moving in and, while I survived the dismemberment of the home we shared, it wasn’t easy. In fact, it was one of the most difficult things I have ever experienced. Walking around the apartment with post it notes, denoting who was taking what, was depressing and gut wrenching on a new level. We both lived in denial about it until the night he finally slept at his new apartment. I felt relieved, ripped apart, empty, and drained all at the same time. Needless to say, I am not jumping at the chance to possibly do it again.

At the same time, I’m not one to shy away from a risk. I don’t let past struggles prevent future happiness. You never know unless you try; clichés are popular for a reason. And if I have to do it all over again, I’ll get through it, just like I did the first time.

Maybe he’s right; maybe we are ready to move in together, but that doesn’t mean we have to. This go around I have the luxury of time and experienced wisdom. I understand that having a passionate relationship doesn’t necessarily equate to bold moves and major decisions. As each year goes by, I am realizing just how quickly days slip through hands; sometimes there’s only time to enjoy them after the fact. I’m in no hurray to speed up a train that’s already moving too fast. The other day my mother told me that I’m in the midst of the best time of my life, and to enjoy it while I can. I’m really trying not to miss a minute of it.

If it’s a matter of when not if; and if the next time I commit to a lease with another person is the beginning of the rest of my life, then I’ve got time. There’s no rush to leave the apartment I love, perhaps the last place where everything will only be in my name.

So, we’ll just keep things the way they are for now and the foreseeable future. Slowly it will feel too strange be apart until we can’t take it anymore, or until we run out of excuses not to, or until both our building managers realize they never renewed our leases.