I honestly did think I was ready to move in with him. I really did, I even told him I was going to move in in January even if I didn’t find a new job and had to commute 30 miles to the one I have and am not particularly fond of right now.
But after being at his house for four days, I came home to my tiny 9’x9’ bedroom and was so happy to be here. I was happy to dump my stuff on it’s place on the floor and put my sunglasses on my dresser and put my jacket on the back of my chair and step over the mess that was mine, all mine, to sit at my desk.
Someone once said that I’d be the kind of person who would move in with her bf and still have her own room. And maybe my own room is what I need when I do finally make that move. Maybe I can turn one of the other rooms into my office and have my desk and my books and my cds and my guitars in there and it’ll be my space. Because looking around my room right now I am cringing at the thought of his mess encroaching on my space.
Maybe that dream about him getting cold feet about me moving wasn’t about him, it was about me getting cold feet and projecting it so I don’t have to be the one to ruin it.