Dear 225,

You were my very first. My very first apartment with my very own kitchen (shared with three other girls), the first place with utilities and rent to be aware of, the first place I felt like I could call my own. This wasn't my first year to live apart from my parents -- I lived in a dorm freshman year. However, that dorm never really felt like it was mine. I shared a room with a random potluck and shared a communal bath five doors down the hall. I walked downstairs to the dining hall to eat, and had to adhere to a certain list of rules.

You, 225, showed me my first taste of freedom, or at least a version of freedom. I shared a room with a friend and the entire apartment with two others; however, I chose the girls I lived with this past year. We decorated the apartment together, set up our own rules and guidelines to adhere to, learned a hip hop dance or two, and hosted a couple of wine nights. Through you I've learned how to be a good roommate, how to cook decently, how to share a tiny room (one that should never have two people sleeping in quarters that close for nine months). My year spent living in your walls, 225, has started the super-long and tiring process of growing up.

It's been a long year of laughs, freak-outs, and passing out drunk on the couch. You've been witness to many all nighters, cry sessions, pre-games, and heart to hearts. But even with the super-close quarters (again no one should ever have to share that small a space for nine months), I wouldn't change a thing.

Thank you for being the best possible first apartment, and to my wonderful roommates, thank you for such an incredible year full of cherished memories.