Living With Vicky -

But living with Vicky is also coming home to a warm apartment. It’s someone remembering to buy milk. It’s having a witness to your small, ordinary days—the ones that don’t seem to matter until you realize they’re the only ones you get.

I didn’t have an answer. Or maybe I did, and I just didn’t know how to say it. That talking would make it real. That if I said out loud how scared I was—about my job, about my future, about the fact that I was twenty-nine and still didn’t know what I wanted—then I’d have to do something about it. And doing something was terrifying. living with vicky

The milkshake was cold and sweet and perfect. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel quite so alone. Living with Vicky is chaos. It’s finding her hairpins in every drawer. It’s her borrowing my sweaters without asking and then acting offended when I complain. It’s her watching reality TV at full volume at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday. It’s her burning popcorn and setting off the fire alarm and laughing so hard she can’t help me open the windows. But living with Vicky is also coming home

“Nothing,” I say. And for once, it’s the truth. I didn’t have an answer

“That’s why I moved in with you, you know,” she said quietly. “Not just because my apartment had mold. But because I was lonely. And I knew you were too.”