I live on the edge of a cliff. 

Each night before I go to bed, I lock the door and silently pray to myself that tonight isn’t the night where the cliff breaks off into the ocean and I wake up floating in the sea.

My house also has black mold, dirty floors, not enough pantry space and I have to share a room. The even weirder part is … I love it. I wouldn’t want it any other way. This isn’t to say I’m a fan of moldy bathrooms but rather who I’m sharing the experience with: my best friends. 

Despite my peculiar living situation, I prefer it to any normal, clean suburban home. My friends’ love invades my space and suddenly I’m wearing rose colored glasses and the dingy balcony is out of sight. The cliché, “home is where the heart is,” might just be a cliché for a reason. Friendship, love and fun all precede the problems with my home and its semi-dangerous location. If our house were to fall off a cliff tomorrow, we would be laughing together all the way down. That’s the best way to gauge the people in your life — your willingness to live on the edge of death with them. 

Everything that could’ve gone wrong with move-in, did. Simultaneously, some of my best memories are from that same weekend. Trying (and failing) to help build my best friend’s Ikea bed, attempting to reconfigure mine and my roommate’s room because of how small it is or even tripping over each other in the kitchen while we’re all making dinner: all the highlights of my past few weeks. 

Friendship may serve something different for every person. One person’s idea of friendship may be more situational, seem more scary or something they don’t crave at all. Personally, friendship for me is all-consuming. 

As an only child, I never grew up with anyone who was biologically and legally binded to me and forced to play. I’ve always had to seek out friends, companions, peers and playdates. Thus, when I did, I held them as close as I could. My friends are my family. I turn to them and rely on them as I imagine one does with a sister, and I hold their love so very delicately and preciously in my hands.

Perhaps that’s why I’m so excited to live with seven girls (yes, seven) — I finally get to live out my dream of having sisters around me. I now get to share closets, run into their rooms and bug them, make meals together and spend quiet moments next to each other.

Growing up with just my mom and living in a make-shift “Gilmore Girls” reality had its many pros, but it also carried specific cons that are hard to separate from my current housing dynamics. 

I’m used to the silence. With only two people in a 1,200-square-foot house, there can only be so much noise at once. I’m used to keeping thoughts to myself and not having the privilege of having someone to annoy throughout the day. I’m known for driving to my best friend’s house, where she and her sister eagerly wait for me to arrive as their third pseudo-sister.

I’m now met with loudness. Even writing this article, I have five of my roommates buzzing around the living room and kitchen, all having separate conversations. There is not one moment of silence in this house, no matter the hour. Someone’s always in the kitchen cooking, walking down our extremely narrow hallway at the same time as you or in the living room watching a movie. Not to say I prefer one more than the other, as both hold a special place in my heart, but I will say that I am fond of the noise. 

I’m used to ready-to-eat meals. My mother may pride herself on many things, but being a chef is not one of them. Much like Rory and Lorelai’s diet in “Gilmore Girls,” my mother and I lived off of microwave mac and cheese and bean burritos. It didn’t occur to me until I got to college that I would have to buy and prepare my own meals. 

Now, what seemed like a looming task before becomes a fun hangout with my roommates as we take the long way to Trader Joe’s just to spend more time together. We share our small kitchen with glee, tripping over each other and stacking our respective snacks on top of one another in the pantry.

Despite my differences in living experiences, I do not prefer one more than the other. I’m fortunate enough to love my home in Isla Vista just as much as I love my completely separate home in the Bay Area. To have two homes, filled with love and excitement to see me, is a luxury not all can afford.

Not only that, but I see my mom in glimpses in my roommates — almost like she hasn’t fully left. When my best friend hung my shelf for me without me having to ask or when my other best friend sat with me and helped build my desk, I could see the same motherly love I’ve been surrounded by my entire life.

Living in I.V. with my best friends has shown me many things, but there is one above all: the people make the place. I believe that your environment is a direct reflection of you: your mood, the way you carry yourself and where your love is grown. Personally, my love grows on Del Playa Drive’s oceanside.

All of this is to say: place does not matter if I am with my best friends. To have the privilege of laughing, loving and spending even the smallest of moments with the people I love the most while watching the ocean is no less than ideal. 

Kira Logan reminisces on her pseudo-sibling relationship while living with her best friends.

A version of this article appeared on p. 8 of the October 24, 2024 print edition of the Daily Nexus.