You are sitting on the floor because the couch does not exist yet. There is a pizza box open on the carpet, the good kind of grease, and one lamp you found in a box labeled MISC. The walls are bare and the sound is strange, that hollow bounce of a room with nothing in it to soak up your voice.
You feel a little unmoored right now. Like you forgot something at the old place. You keep listening for footsteps that used to be there and aren't.
I want you to look at the light on the ceiling. That one lamp, throwing everything gold and unfinished. You will paint these walls, hang the mirror, fill this room so full that you will forget it was ever empty. And that is the part you will never get back: the emptiness. The clean, terrifying, entirely yours emptiness of a place that has not yet learned who you are.
You will move six more times after this. I promise you will. And on some ordinary Tuesday decades from now, you will unfold a cardboard box in a new kitchen and catch the smell of it, and you will be right back here, on this floor, eating this pizza, twenty-something and sure you have made a mistake.
You had not made a mistake.
Eat slowly. Do not rush to fill the room. Sleep on the floor tonight and listen to how quiet it is, because you are about to spend years making it loud, and you will be glad you did, and you will still, sometimes, miss the quiet.