Paul and I were madly in love. Naturally, the next logical step was to move to the next level. In our case, it was moving in. It’s curious how we use the phrase ‘next level’ while referring to relationship milestones. I can’t help but liken it to drug-seeking behaviour, where taking a little more is expected to yield a better high, next-level high. It’s as though love were a dose, and each milestone comes with a higher dose. Surely, moving in together comes with more time together, more intimacy and all those things we imagine will give us a better ‘hit’, but just like upping drugs comes with risks, so does love.

All the ‘I wish you were here with me’ inconveniences were supposed to be solved by our new living arrangement. And they were for a fleeting moment. We were inseparable. I looked forward to going home to him. I loved making it our space, which mostly meant ‘erasing’ more of him in the apartment to accommodate me.

We laughed about the changes at first. We’d quickly learn that we both had specific ways of doing things. We liked stuff organised in a certain way and were unwilling to compromise. It was like we were meeting new versions of ourselves. Even things like food preferences appeared different. He now wanted soup in his food, yet I had been serving him dry stew for months, and he said nothing but compliments.

He loved doing his work with loud background music. I couldn’t hear myself think unless there was total silence.

“Could you turn the volume down as I study?” I asked.

“I can’t work in silence,” Paul argued.

“You could use your headphones,” I told him.

“I use the headphones at work, but I like using the speakers at home,” Paul protested.

“Exactly! So you could also use the headphones,” I replied.

He came up with another excuse. I got mad and left because he was wasting my time with an illogical argument, yet I hardly had enough time to study for the certification I was pursuing.

Then came the arguments on the division of household responsibilities. It was astonishing and annoying that we’d have the same conversation over the matter at least once a week. I hate repeating myself, so I resorted to picking up the slack when I got tired of the same fight. I grew resentful.

Remember, the intimacy we were supposed to increase now that we were living together? Mosquitoes were having more play time with me than Paul was. I’d like to blame him, but we each carry significant blame. It was many things. Our timing seemed to be off. I wondered why we previously seemed to have these urges at the same time. I could not find him attractive in certain moments as my resentment grew. It frustrated him.

We stopped looking forward to coming home. He spent more time with his male colleagues after work. Paul hated being outdoors, so his absence from the house was significant. I felt unwanted in the house when he started coming home late. I detested waiting for him. I distrusted him. We fought about my suspicions, and he was mad about unfounded accusations.

Then he came drunk one night and yelled at me. I cried. He accused me of trying to manipulate him with tears. I cried harder. I couldn’t believe I was getting yelled at by the drunk man I had been waiting for, anxious about his well-being, yet still angry at the situation.

He woke up the following day with no recollection of the night. I let it go, but it happened again. I needed my own space again, but I had committed my funds to the certification I couldn’t study for in this house. Moving had to wait for two more months until I was done.

“Maybe things will get better,” I told myself.

They didn’t. Our situation got worse, and we weren’t even talking to each other. I moved out of the bedroom and started sleeping on the couch. It annoyed Paul as much as it annoyed him to see me next to him in bed.

I couldn’t wait any longer, so I sought refuge at a friend’s as I arranged to find another apartment for myself. Moving out of Paul’s apartment signalled the end of our relationship. The decision to move in turned out to have been a testing ground, and we failed the test.

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