By Elly Jones

It’s a Sunday afternoon and I’m driving home after what had been a pretty idyllic day.

I woke up and spent a lazy hour in bed, then took myself to the gym to sweat out the inhuman amount of pasta I ate the night before. I then made the drive to meet two of my friends who I hadn’t seen since Christmas for a catch-up brunch involving carbohydrates and gossip. We walked through the little town, and I had a mild heart attack every time I saw a dog walk past us – it’s a miracle I’m still alive. I ended the day by visiting my parents before heading off for an evening of books and bad TV. 

Really, what more could you want from a Sunday?

Still, as I made the leisurely drive home, listening to a playlist that jumps from Cardi B to Stevie Nicks, I found myself crying. I wasn’t hysterical, nor was I shedding a single stoic tear. I had a little wobble – as I often do after a lovely day – at the thought of going home to an empty flat. 

For around four years now, I have lived on my own. Most of the time, I love it. I have lived with my parents, a whole bunch of strangers at university, and even an ex-boyfriend. Living alone has been my favourite, but I have to admit that it is certainly the living situation that I have found comes with the biggest highs and lowest lows. 

I absolutely relish having my own space, somewhere quiet and safe where I can be completely myself without worrying about boyfriends or roommates witnessing all my weird behaviour. I love that the flat looks how I want it to look. It is filled with big stacks of books, too many plants and a surprising amount of nude art. 

There is nothing quite so lovely as coming home from work, having spent the day relentlessly talking to a million different people, to complete joyful silence. I don’t have to answer any more questions or utter another word. I can throw my clothes off (I’m the naked neighbour – sorry), flick through my phone in peace and just decompress. It’s bliss and, actually, fundamental to my general wellbeing. 

There are, of course, the days at work that break you a little. The days where you just want another human to complain to, to tell you that you work hard and that, yes, everyone else is awful. These are the days when I miss living with someone. Perhaps not a roommate, but a partner, someone who deeply cares whether I’ve had a good day.

Of course, I have gorgeous friends and family that I can call or invite over, and I’ve certainly turned up at their door requesting love and attention in the past. Still, it’s not the same as having your person open the door with loving arms, ready to listen. 

There are less sentimental things I miss about living with someone. Frankly, my feminism evaporates from my body every time I have to take the bins out, carry the heavy shopping up and down the stairs or become murderously frustrated over flatpack furniture.

Those are the moments when I fantasise about a burly lumberjack type coming into my life with the sole purpose of taking care of the gross stuff, making me dinner or chopping wood for the fireplace that I don’t have.

There are also the financial disadvantages of living alone. When I’m not writing, I work in education. While I love what I do, it’s definitely not the kind of job in which you’re going to make a lot of money.

The majority of my wage goes on rent and bills as I don’t have anyone to split the cost with, and this is the real-life implications of my choices. I essentially live in my overdraft, I don’t go on holidays, and the recent rise in the cost of living will have a genuine impact on my life. 

Most people tell me to just move to a space where I can flat share and yeah, that would certainly save me a bit of money. I’m almost thirty-one, though, and I feel like my roommate phase has been and gone. I like my independence too much, my own space and freedom. 

It’s hard to imagine living with someone again, letting another person into my space in the hopes that they might stick around. I had always imagined myself as one of those people who can be in a long-term, committed relationship but live in separate houses. Maybe that’s just my fear of commitment talking. 

In the meantime, I’ll keep living alone – and keep loving it. I’ll let myself feel lonely when I need to, indulge in the little wobble, and keep working towards affording the heating and maybe even a weekend away someday.   

There is always the lumberjack fantasy too, I suppose.