When it comes to moving, there are a couple of things to keep in mind: make a list, pack by rooms, and always, always use wrapping paper. Your mugs and TV screen will thank you later.

But then comes the other things, the less obvious problems to consider when moving—the things I like to call “the sentimentals”. Like the stain on the corner of the sofa, from that night you and your partner decided to get Chinese takeout instead of going to your reservation at Dante, because it was too cold outside and you were both too tired from sex. After graciously tipping your delivery guy with half your body still hid behind the door, you leaped back onto the sofa with boxes of spring rolls and dumplings and pork fried rice, accidentally spilling the plastic cup of soy sauce. Shit! You both stared at the stain—already helplessly spreading its edges—and laughed.

Or that dent on the kitchen island from when your best friend came to visit. After a night of dancing and drinking in Soho, you decided to end it with a can of beer and a slice of dollar pizza. Except you couldn’t find your bottle opener and your friend was getting sleepy and the pizza was getting cold. Oh, the pizza. So you placed the bottle cap at the edge of your marble kitchen island, and off it came with a “pop” along with a broken piece of marble. You and your friend laughed, clinked your bottles, and dug into that good ol’ dollar pizza, still warm.

Or that faded smiley face you drew on the corner of your window, the one where you sat each night as you silently inhaled the cigarette you promised to be your last. Except for that one night, followed by an insignificant day, you felt a sudden low—a low so crushing that not even nicotine could calm you down. As you leaned against the only window in your tiny East Village bedroom, you felt abandoned by a world you barely know. So you took the last drag of your cigarette from between your fingers and pressed its burning end on the window. As you watched the soft red light die off, you pulled its waning body across the dusty glass, drawing a smiley face opposite your crying self. As you sat there, confronted by the smoke-scented happiness you prescribed yourself, you closed your eyes.

But no one tells you how to deal with these things upon moving. So instead, you focus on packing your shirts and shoes and plates and chairs. As for the sentimentals, you let them be. Only before you head out do you take a last glance. Then you let them go, knowing there will be more to come.