The landlord, Mr. Evans, showed us the rooms and then waited while we looked at them privately. I walked through the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and noticed that one hinge squeaked. I almost laughed at how naturally the detail drew my attention. Donovan examined the closet space and asked about heating costs, then stood near the window where afternoon light warmed the floor. We met in the middle of the living room and began discussing what furniture we would need and what we could keep from our separate apartments.
For an hour we spoke about practical things. Neither of us pretended that the apartment's imperfections were romantic simply because we might live there together. We discussed whether the lease length was sensible, how expenses would be divided, and what would happen if either person's work schedule changed significantly. Mr. Evans answered our questions without pressuring us, and we thanked him before leaving. There was no brass key in Donovan's pocket and no hidden proposal waiting to be unveiled.
In the car afterward, I asked what he thought. He said he liked the windows, the location, and the fact that the second bedroom could hold both a desk and some storage. He was less enthusiastic about the small kitchen and the price of parking. I agreed about the kitchen and suggested we look at two more places before deciding. Donovan nodded, relieved that neither of us needed the first apartment to become a sign that everything was meant to be.
We spent the next month comparing listings. One place had a beautiful kitchen but no reliable parking. Another had enough space for two people and very little natural light. A third was too expensive once we accounted for utilities and insurance. We kept a shared spreadsheet of costs, and whenever we disagreed about a number, we checked the facts instead of assigning feelings to the disagreement.
The process was strangely comforting. I had once wanted a key to appear as a romantic revelation, evidence that Donovan was planning a future extravagant enough to make other people envious. Now I wanted to know whether the plumbing worked, whether the commute was tolerable, and whether we would both feel at home after a difficult day. The difference made me smile because it was not a retreat from romance. It was a more durable expression of it.
As September approached, I began thinking about the anniversary of the Tuesday night. Donovan had not forgotten it either. We spoke about whether it would be painful to acknowledge the date, and he admitted that he had been anxious about it in ways he could not fully explain. I told him we did not have to create a ritual or pretend the day had become something beautiful. We could remember that it had happened and choose how to spend the present day without trying to rewrite the past.