Okay, so technically I did not get evicted, and I would like that on record before anyone starts using dramatic language, because eviction implies wrongdoing, whereas what happened here was more of a… mutual philosophical disagreement between me and my landlord about what constitutes “acceptable use of space.” His name is Rüdiger, which already tells you everything you need to know, and he has the exact energy of a man who irons his socks and distrusts abstract art on principle. I had been living in that apartment for eleven months, which is just long enough to develop emotional attachment to things that are objectively terrible, like the radiator that screamed every time I turned it on or the kitchen drawer that only opened if you whispered to it first. The problems began — as they often do — with something small and completely avoidable, which in this case was me agreeing to let Klara host “a small gathering” in my apartment because her place “had bad energy,” which I now understand was not a metaphor but a warning. Klara is one of those people who describes everything as a concept, including wine, relationships, and apparently my living room, which she referred to, at one point, as “a transitional emotional container,” and I said yes because I am weak in the face of confidence and also because she brought expensive olives.

The gathering was not small. It was, at best, medium in terms of bodies but large in terms of intention, which is worse. People kept arriving in layers, like an onion of bad decisions, and at some point I realized I no longer knew everyone’s name, which is always a strong indicator that the situation has slipped out of your control. There was a guy named Matteo who claimed he was “between projects” but spent most of the evening rearranging my bookshelf by “vibe,” which meant all my books were suddenly organized by emotional intensity instead of author, which I did not agree to. Someone brought a speaker the size of a suitcase. Someone else started talking about breathwork in a tone that suggested we were about to do it whether we wanted to or not. At around midnight, Klara announced we were going to “shift the energy,” which involved turning off all the lights, lighting six candles that absolutely violated multiple fire codes, and asking everyone to “move intuitively,” which is how I found myself watching two strangers slow-dance next to my sink while a third person lay on the floor “processing.” I was standing in the corner holding my own glass like a guest in my own apartment, trying to decide whether I still technically lived there.

The moment it became legally interesting happened at approximately 01:17 a.m., which I know because Rüdiger later referenced the exact time in an email that read like a witness statement. The music had reached a volume I would describe as optimistic, and Matteo had moved on from the bookshelf to what he called “reframing the furniture narrative,” which meant my couch was now diagonally placed in a way that suggested instability. Someone — and I still don’t know who — opened the window to “let the room breathe,” which unfortunately also let the noise escape directly into the night like a confession. The first knock on the door was polite. The second knock had intent. By the third, I was already walking toward it with the slow dread of someone who knows exactly what’s waiting on the other side but still hopes it might be something else, like pizza or a misunderstanding. It was not pizza. It was Rüdiger, fully dressed, fully awake, and vibrating with controlled disappointment. Behind him stood Frau Klein from downstairs, wearing a robe and the expression of someone who had already called the police but wanted to see the problem with her own eyes first. I opened my mouth to explain, which was optimistic, and what came out instead was, “It’s more of a gathering than a party,” which did not help. Rüdiger looked past me into the apartment, where, at that exact moment, someone let out a deep, emotional exhale that echoed like a spiritual event, and he said, very calmly, “This is not a gathering,” which felt definitive.

What followed was a series of events that I will summarize as efficiently as possible, because even I have limits. The music stopped. People became visible in a way they hadn’t been before, suddenly aware of their limbs and their choices. Matteo tried to shake Rüdiger’s hand and introduce himself as “a facilitator,” which Rüdiger ignored with impressive discipline. Klara attempted to explain the concept of energy flow, which Frau Klein shut down with the phrase “I have work at six.” At some point, someone knocked over one of the candles, which did not cause a fire but did cause a moment of collective clarity. The apartment emptied quickly after that, in the way crowds dissolve once reality re-enters the room. By two a.m., it was just me, Klara, and the faint smell of burnt optimism. Klara hugged me and said, “That was intense,” which I agreed with in a tone that suggested I might never recover. The next morning, I woke up to a message from Rüdiger asking for “a serious conversation,” which is never a good sign, followed by an email outlining several “incidents,” including noise disturbance, “unauthorized spatial alterations,” and something he referred to as “ritualistic activity,” which I did not remember consenting to but could not fully deny. The conversation itself was calm, polite, and deeply final. He used phrases like “unsuitable tenancy” and “breach of agreement,” and I nodded along like someone watching their own life being translated into legal language.

So now I am packing. Slowly, inefficiently, emotionally attached to objects I did not care about a week ago. My friend Lena comes over and sits on the floor, holding a mug I forgot I owned, offering commentary like a live audience. “Honestly,” she says, “you lasted longer than I expected.” Which is fair. We pack books, clothes, the one plate I always used because it felt right, and every now and then I find something that makes me stop, like a receipt, or a note, or the exact corner where I stood the night everything shifted from manageable to memorable. I am not devastated. I am also not thrilled. I am, once again, intact. Slightly displaced, mildly embarrassed, but moving. And here’s the thing — and I say this with full awareness of my track record — I can already feel the optimism creeping back in, quiet and annoying, like maybe the next place will be better, or at least differently bad. Maybe the next landlord will have a softer relationship to movement and candles. Or maybe I’ll just learn to say no when someone calls my living room a container. Either way, I zip up another box, look around the apartment that is no longer mine, and think, okay, Tallulah, that got weird, but you’re still here. And apparently, that continues to be the standard.