Almost two years (?…!) ago, I sat in a weathered cafe, surrounded by flyers for bands I didn’t know and nannies I’d never need. As I waited for the text “Done with class; heading out to get you.” from my friend and ride back into town, I started a blog.

That first entry was a little long and a lot sloppy, but it reminded me no matter how far away from home—whatever that word even means, home—I was, I would never be entirely alone. Just like all those years spent worsening the writer’s wart I tried so desperately to hide until the sixth grade, I could still bury my face in a notebook and pretend someone was listening, even when there was no one there.

That day, just like every day after it, I wrote because I needed to. Long days darkened into longer nights as the person I spent all my energy talking to couldn’t really hear me. But now, the sun always seems to want to rest before I do, and I can’t get my fingers alone long enough to type even a few paragraphs (what you don’t see: Fredo puttering around in the kitchen, asking, “you ready for me, mi amor?” twice since he got home…20 minutes ago. Not that I’m complaining.)

Now, though, I find myself stealing moments at work, sending myself e-mails at the gym, or scribbling notes while watching this week’s Beauty and the Beast (did I mention this blog is a safe zone? No judgement allowed.) so I’ll remember the thing I want to write about the next time I get a couple hours to be with just me. Somehow, writing has become the other woman, and I’m not a very good at being unfaithful.

Fredo’s mentioned it before, that my blog name really isn’t relevant anymore, but I find myself just pushing aside his reasoning.

“Well, bebee, you know, you’re not really lonely anymore…”

“I know, but it’s about more than just being in a relationship, because I was in a relationship before, too.”

“Yeah, but you were alone in that…”

“I know, but it’s about, you know, the journey from, well, being a single woman, to, you know, navigating my way through a relationship that’s different from any I’ve ever experienced.”

But I think he may be right. I’m not lonely anymore. I still know what it’s like to miss the smell of someone’s hair and the sight of their suitcase on the floor, but now it’s from the safety of a double-occupancy bed. Writing from the “microwave meals for one” perspective is all I’ve known for so long, I’m afraid I won’t know how to write from anywhere else. And I’m still not entirely convinced that being happily coupled off doesn’t mean the name doesn’t apply. Companionship is (to steal a motivational poster cliche) the journey, not the destination, after all. But maybe my manfriend is right. Maybe it’s time to say “so long,” to So Long, Lonesome.