I still remember how excited I felt the first time I decided to enter a live-in relationship. At one year out of college, my job paid next to nothing, and the only living situation I could afford involved cramming into a three-bedroom apartment with five roommates. Privacy flew out the window, and

In March of 2016, Malcolm* and I decided to move in together. We’d been dating for just about four months. It was alarmingly fast, but it felt right. We spent just about every waking second together.We met on Tinder and had an instant connection, even though our personalities were a bit mismatched.

It was logical that the next step in our relationship would be marriage. We laughed at the same jokes, we're both Jewish, had similar family values, loved being creative together, and cared for our dog Kermit like a daughter. I was tired of the dating scene. I couldn't wait to delete my ...Continue

To say that I didn't mean for this to happen doesn't begin to express the disappointment I felt in myself when it did. I had been married (technically, I still am, because divorce is expensive and living separately is unthinkably so) for 11 years, with two school-age children together and one I

Only two months ago, I was living with my partner. We were performing together most nights, and we were making plans for our future. We had been together for about 10 months, had been friends for close to a decade, and were crazy about each other. We had felt strongly that moving in together was