When you're little and people ask you what superpower you'd want, you pick flying or invisibility or seeing the future or the ability to shoot fire out your nose.
You don't pick leaving.
But here I am in the middle of an empty apartment, getting ready to say goodbye to another place that's seen all of my best and all of my worst, hoping that someday staying will come as naturally to me as leaving does.
The street numbers are my little trophies. 8230, where I imagine I'll still be having sleepovers with my best friends when we're 30. 513, where I discovered that girls aren't always evil even when they're traveling in packs and wearing strange letters. 639, where I learned to read maps in weird languages and live a little. 422 and 431, where I learned the hard way that you can't make someone love you.
790, where I learned that I'm so much happier when I'm alone than when I'm settling. That it's okay if my life isn't anything like what I thought it would be at 25. That I'm a whole lot more than the sum of all my mistakes. To just say it already. To finally stop underestimating myself.
The best part is that the very best parts are still to come, still out there somewhere, and all I have to do is find them.
A little open letter to my next number: you've got a lot to live up to, but so do I. And it's okay if you're not my last. Just do me a favor and leave me better than you found me.