Choosing Me

Manhattan wasn't just alive~it thrived on chaos dressed in couture.

It was glossy and grimy in the same breath. A paradox of street vendors and rooftop brunches, of rushed espresso shots and slow, cinematic skyline views. It was a city that could ruin your shoes and your expectations in one week and still make you feel like the main character.

I'd arrived two days ago with two suitcases, one carry-on, and a heart full of ambition. I didn't bring much~just clothes, my laptop, some handwritten notes, and my favorite books. Everything else stayed in Portland, where my my One bedroom apartment waited like a sealed memory I wasn't quite ready to part with.

My new one-bedroom apartment, tucked inside an old brownstone on the Upper West Side, was small by Manhattan standards ~ but full of charm. High ceilings, creaky floors, and a window view of trees that filtered the morning light like a filter I hadn't paid for. The living room held just enough space for a plush armchair, a vintage bookshelf, and a sizable desk I could already tell would witness the best and worst of my writing hours.

The bedroom was modest but mine ~ sunlight pooling across a low-profile bed covered in linen sheets and mismatched pillows I'd dragged from Portland. It wasn't flashy, but it felt like the kind of place where big ideas could live. Quiet. Grounded. New York, but not trying too hard.

There were no big furniture deliveries. No dramatic unboxing montages. Just me, a kettle, a few mugs, and the echo of my new life taking shape in quiet corners.

I was rearranging a stack of books by theme~places I've written about, places I want to run to, places I'll probably cry in~when I heard the knock.

Soft but yet sharp.

I blinked, caught off guard. I wasn't expecting anyone. And I didn't even know my neighbors yet.

When I opened it, the first thing I saw was height. The second was shoulders. The third~when I looked up, was a face that could've easily belonged in a black-and-white fragrance campaign.

Strong jaw. Easy smirk. Warm, golden-brown eyes that flicked over me with curious amusement.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry to bother you. I'm Theo~I live next door. I was gonna ask if you had a screwdriver I could borrow... but judging by the fact that you're holding a stack of books and look slightly unpacked, I'm guessing you just moved in?"

I blinked, still not processing the shoulders part.

"Uh~yeah. Just got here two days ago. I'm Stassie."

"Welcome to the building, Stassie." His smile widened, casual and a little too charming. "Let me guess... writer?"

I narrowed my eyes. "How'd you know?"

He nodded at the papers scattered across the floor behind me. "You've got that whole mysterious creative energy thing going on. And most new tenants don't alphabetize their work folders on day two."

I laughed, caught. "Fair enough. No screwdriver, though. Just a wine opener and very little upper body strength."

"I'll take my chances," he said, gesturing to his place. "Thanks anyway."

And then, just before he turned, he glanced back with a grin. "By the way... love the hair. Short hair and confidence always travel together... I will see you around."

I smiled "thank you and most def!" I closed the door a little slower than necessary, staring at the wood like it had answers.

New city. New gorgeous neighbour. Whole new vibe.

And suddenly, New York  felt even more interesting.

Mid-March in Manhattan was the city in transition~caught somewhere between winter's last breath and spring's first flirtation.

The air still held a bite, but the sun stayed out longer, casting golden slants across building facades and turning the sidewalks into runways for trench coats and layered scarves. Magnolia trees were just starting to bloom, soft bursts of white and blush pushing through the gray like a promise. Cafés dragged out their sidewalk chairs again, and locals~still in boots but sunglasses on~clung to their oat lattes like warm armor against the lingering chill.

And I was finally starting to feel at home.

At Wander + West, the energy buzzed like a current beneath everything. The building was a converted industrial space tucked into a side street in SoHo~glass walls, exposed beams, curated chaos. There were no cubicles here. Just long shared tables, breakout lounges, velvet armchairs facing whiteboards, and entire walls filled with framed covers from every corner of the globe.

Someone always had a new city pinned to their corkboard. A scent of incense or spice from a recipe test in the kitchen. Noise-canceling headphones perched on tousled hair as writers edited from beanbags or stairwells.

The team were effortlessly brilliant. The kind of people who used words like 'ethereal' in casual conversation and wore linen in spring and somehow made it look like a statement.

This place wasn't just a magazine. It was an ecosystem of curiosity and culture. A sanctuary for storytellers who understood that travel wasn't about escaping~it was about witnessing. Immersing. Becoming.

And in the midst of it all~was me.

My desk sat near a wall of windows. A bulletin board pinned with ticket stubs, notes, and torn photos from past stories. A half-drunk coffee and a notepad scribbled with opening lines I kept rewriting.

Because the next issue was mine to shape.

And the world was suddenly small enough to hold in the palm of my hand.