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I don’t know most of the neighbors in my four-story apartment building, but I can hear them. Often, these sounds are annoying: doors slamming, the incessant beep from a neglected fire alarm battery, a family quarrel in the hallway, overhead thuds that wake me up at night.

For the most part, we stay out of one another’s way, save for the perfunctory greetings and nods in the lobby. Normally, I like it that way. But my feelings changed when New York City became a hot spot for the coronavirus. Suddenly, living alone seemed life-threatening.

I’ve spent six out of my 13 years in New York living alone, in neighborhoods including Long Island City, Washington Heights, Harlem and now Prospect Heights in Brooklyn. During that time, I’ve preferred my own company: My home is my retreat, it’s my work space, it’s my little art haven away from bustle and noise.

But now, being locked in for days on end with only the sound of my own voice (apart from virtual hangouts with friends) as company feels stifling.