A year after first meeting my boyfriend at San Diego State University, we entered the uncertain world of a long‑distance relationship when he left for a Ph.D. program in Illinois while I stayed in California.
During my visits, I would stay for weeks at a time, and we quickly became skilled at simulating a shared life: strolling through an Aldi, popping popcorn for movie nights, and working on laptops at a local café. The only twist was that eventually I’d have to pack my bags and board a plane.
When I was accepted into Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism and learned I would be moving to the same city as my boyfriend, I wondered whether we should finally live together for real. To my surprise, everyone else assumed we would.
Instead, I signed a one‑year lease with two women I had never met before.
I didn’t want to become overly dependent on my boyfriend as I started a new chapter in a different city.
A few months before my move to Chicago, I discussed my decision to live separately with my boyfriend.
Neither of us was thrilled about spending more time apart, but I made clear that wanting my own apartment had nothing to do with our relationship.
I needed this move to feel like my own milestone, not necessarily a joint one. I also didn’t want my first year in Chicago to automatically become our first year living together.
He understood, but my mother thought I was overthinking it. She wasn’t opposed to the plan, yet she couldn’t see why I would go through the hassle when I already had a boyfriend with a stable apartment.
It wasn’t just my mom. When I told friends I was heading to Chicago, I inevitably had to clarify that, no, I wasn’t moving in with my boyfriend.
I explained that my knowledge of Chicago was limited to following him to his favorite spots and letting him lead the way. I wanted the chance to discover my own go‑to coffee shop or Pad Thai order.
More importantly, building friendships—especially with other women—has always been crucial to me. Living with my boyfriend would have made it easy to spend most of my free time with him.
Even though that prospect sounded appealing after months of long‑distance separation, I worried it could keep me from exploring new connections.
Living apart still gives us plenty of time together.
Through a friend of my boyfriend’s, I was introduced to two women who were also moving to Chicago at the same time. They needed a roommate, and the apartment was just a few blocks from his.
In the three months since arriving, I’ve enjoyed building my own life here. I chose a kitchen table on Facebook Marketplace, decorated my shoebox‑sized bedroom with polka‑dot curtains and magazine racks, and grew close to my roommates, who went from strangers to some of my best friends.
Now, my boyfriend drops by and squeezes onto our couch with the rest of us. When the night ends, we grab McDonald’s ice‑cream cones and walk back to his place together.
We still see each other almost every day—whether it’s tavern‑style pizza on a Wednesday or a stroll along the Riverwalk after class. The key difference is that our time together is a conscious choice, not a default because we share a lease.
There’s a practical side to this, too. We’re each shaping our own lives, and neither of us knows exactly what the next chapter holds.
After graduate school, I might end up in New York, which would mean another round of long‑distance. Or I could stay in Chicago, in which case we’ll consider living together again.
Overall, I moved to Chicago for journalism, a new city, and the chance to figure out what comes next for me. My boyfriend happened to already be there. I moved for myself, but love made the new place feel like home.