When Tyler asked me to move in, I thought it meant we were building a life together. Six weeks later, I opened the fridge and found an invoice for rent, utilities, and even a “comfort fee.” He owns the place outright. So, what exactly was I contributing to?
Tyler and I had been dating for almost two years, and I found myself at his place more often than not.
After all, I was staying in a tiny apartment with two roommates and no privacy, but Tyler lived alone in a sweet place his parents had bought for him when he finished grad school.
One night, we were watching the sunset over the city when everything changed.
“You know something?” Tyler said, pulling me closer. “You basically live here already. Why not just make it official?”
My heart skipped a beat. I’d been waiting for a sign that our relationship was moving forward, that Tyler saw a future with me the way I saw one with him.
“Are you serious?” I asked. His eyes looked sincere in the fading light.
“Never been more serious about anything,” he replied, planting a kiss on my forehead.
So I agreed, believing this was the beginning of our shared life together.
The next weekend was a flurry of activity.
My best friend Mia helped move boxes while my brother and Tyler carried furniture up three flights of stairs.