Allyson and I are classic, "grew-up-together" childhood pals, and there's no limit to the memories we made under that roof. In fourth grade, we had a school in Allyson's bedroom to teach our Beanie Babies basic arithmetic. As preteens, we blasted 'N Sync from her boombox and made up secret nicknames for each other. And when I broke up with my first boyfriend, the one place I had to go to talk things over was Allyson's.
And then, suddenly, we were older. One December, we both found out where we were going to college, and we knew that we wouldn't live five minutes apart anymore. Her parents threw a party to celebrate our acceptances. They hung a sign in the dining room: "Isia = Princeton, Allyson = Brandeis." It stayed up for months.
The sign's gone now, and so are the two of us. Yes, I still go to Allyson's house sometimes, when we both happen to be home for a few days. But I miss the feeling I used to have while helping myself to juice from her fridge: the sense that if I didn't want to, I'd never have to leave.