The hardest part is how you’re forced to envision your life. The couch could go here, the TV on that wall—or maybe on that one over there. You take in the apartment’s dimensions and blank space, and try to imagine a version of yourself there. Some places were easy to fantasize about. One of the first we toured was almost too good to be true. Skylight in the entryway and warm wood panels. Built-in shelving in every room. It was perfect and this is how we knew it wasn’t ours. As we inspected the unit and its fine details, other prospective tenants walked quietly around us, doing their own rounds of imaginative home planning. One pair practically waltzed through the room with optimism. This will be the dining area! Bar cart in that corner? Their sense of certainty irked me. This specific open house attracted a sect of couples that my boyfriend Michael and I joked were the better versions of us. Creative directors and financiers donning Arc'teryx and Aime Leon Dore. We didn’t stand a chance, but we applied anyway hoping for a stroke of luck. Michael isn’t the superstitious type. He’s not wont to seek signs or believe in fate. But even he started to read into random occurrences. This search is making me crazy. Before and after tours, we’d zigzag the metropolitan avenues and wonder if the universe was dropping hints. Dead bird, house fire, car crash. Was that a sign? Was that a sign? The next evening, the broker shared that our application had been rejected. I didn’t even blink, it wasn’t a surprise.

More tours in Brooklyn. All along I thought this would be the borough. I had always complained about living uptown and being so far from the center of everything. We entered the foyer of the building to a drove of other applicants. Like us, these people were tired and disillusioned from the hunt. I asked one person how many places he’d seen. Countless. I’ve been searching for a month. My standards only get lower as time goes on. I nodded in agreement. While looking at the vacant apartment, Michael noticed a bug trap with dying cockroaches in it. We’re like birds fighting over crumbs. Across town, there was one promising unit right next to the Brooklyn Museum. Low-price, rent-stabilized. I rushed over after work. Dark and small, the apartment was fine at best. I roamed the area and tried to convince myself that this is what I want. My apathy surprised me. I was hoping to like it more, but I’m not sure. I feel so confused, I told Michael. There’s gentrification in every pocket of New York, but in certain neighborhoods, Crown Heights, Flatbush, Bed Stuy—the tension in the atmosphere is thick. Block to block, different worlds exist and they’re discordant beside each other. Eastern Parkway is a stark line that makes the division clear. At the southern half, people whom I assumed to be locals swept their porches and wiped down their trucks. They were mostly Black, nodding at me as Black strangers often do. The northern half, on the other hand, is lined with cutesy bakeries bearing swishy millennial fonts. Multiethnic groups of transplants lingered round the street and blocked the walkways. Excuse me, excuse me. In my annoyance, I reminded myself that I am one of them too. In reality, the bitterness just stems from feeling left out, being unable to penetrate the center. You could be so close, my friends say at a party, if you just moved to Brooklyn. It used to be the Village or the Lower East Side. These days, people flock to Bed Stuy and Bushwick. After two back-to-back tours, I went to a reading near Herbert Von King park. Walking to a friend’s apartment after, there was a large group of us. We were happy together and laughing. Enjoy your youth, an older woman wistfully said as we slipped out of a wine store. It was one of those perfect nights that only happens every so often. On the way back uptown, I searched for one bedrooms in Bed Stuy for under $2600, only nine popped up. Grey and beige and grey. 

At least it’s spring, I told myself, and the magnolias are in bloom. On the walk to another tour, this time alone on my lunch break, I felt as if my skin was twinkling. Something about Queens. I photographed the block for Michael to see. This would be our street. These homes would neighbor ours. A fruit and vegetable market was nearby. Such fragrant basil. I strolled up the building steps with gleeful expectation. It wasn’t ideal, this apartment. The living room was awkwardly shaped and the bedroom was small, but the area filled me with such a good feeling that I was willing to make it work. The afternoon streamed through the windows, a blue spruce tree outside filtering the light. Yes, I was sure we could make it work. Oh by the way, no pets, the broker chirped. I waved goodbye and shut the door. False spring. The cold days soon followed. For ten days straight, all my dreams were StreetEasy listings. Grey and beige, one after another, grey and beige. This will all be worth it, you’ll find the perfect place. By the third application rejection, niceties started to seem naive. Why are you wanting to move? The brokers would ask. New neighborhood, change of scenery. What I didn’t say: I’m searching for proof that my life is moving forward. 

Eventually, we began to wonder why we even lived in New York where the average rent for a one-bedroom is over $4,000 yet the minimum hourly wage is only 17. Is the struggle even worth it? No, Michael texted me. No, no, no. The rejections kept coming in and spring kept rushing on. I almost missed the cherry blossoms in Central Park. Pink petals everywhere when I finally made the pilgrimage. I walked in pace with the steps of my heart which did, against my better judgement, pitter-patter for New York. A father and child pass me by, and the little one enthusiastically shouts, Dad, I feel happy here! I walked the Harlem Meer in circles as I’ve done a million times, muscle memory guiding me, and thought of my mother’s suggestion to pack it up and move to the suburbs. But this is the city I love, this is the city I love.