It’s Sunday afternoon and we are both sitting on the couch and listening to jazz because I told him it was hard for me to write when people are singing. He fell asleep with his laptop still buzzing and notebook half-closed beside him. The weekend has been warm for the first time after what felt like an extra long winter. Now the windows are all open, laundry just finished, his feet are swaying with the wind or the music, and inside our apartment is my favorite place. Sometimes I think how sad it is, that we're going to leave this behind.