July 14, 2026.
We spent the weekend apartment hunting in the city.
Damien took Friday off—rare for him. We drove in early, coffee in hand, playlist of old songs we both liked playing low.
The realtor, a sharp woman named Carla, met us at the first building—a high-rise with doorman, gym, rooftop deck.
The unit was on the twentieth floor: two bedrooms, open kitchen, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park.
Sunlight poured in.
I walked to the window.
Imagined mornings here.
Coffee on the balcony.
Damien coming up behind me, arms around my waist.
He joined me.
“What do you think?”
I smiled.
“It’s beautiful.”
He nodded.
But his eyes asked the real question.
Is this us?
We saw four more.
A loft with exposed brick—artsy, perfect for my design stuff.
A modern one-bedroom w
