In small talks, people often ask me,
“Where do you live”.
The proceeding question is almost always,
“Who do you live with?”.
And I answer,
“I live alone”.
In our culture, girls my age still live with their parents or if they are currently in the circumstance that they cannot, they live in dormitories with other girls.
When my father knew I will be living alone, I can see the apprehension on his face and on the tone of his voice. On lunch dates, he would always suggest that I should get a roommate or change places. Until he probably got tired and stopped persuading me to do so. Whenever he visited he would suggest to do my laundry or check if I bring boys in.
People often assume that it is sad to live alone. I wonder if they ever tried. It is lovely, freeing.
I love to walk out of the bathroom naked. Fall asleep in an oversize shirt with messy hair and bare faced or with a face mask on. I love cleaning my place and messing it all up. I love doing the laundry. Falling asleep in the smell of crisp new sheets after a warm shower. I love cooking for myself. Staring at the window, watching the curtains dance in the breeze. How the sun hit my face in the morning, or how the moon lights up to touch my legs by midnight. I love to wake up any time of the day, sing my heart out and dance on my own. The freedom to stay in your bed all day or go home anytime you want to. You can cook dinner with friends and let them stay over without asking permission from anyone.
It is being able to control this little household, the freedom to take charge of my life.