I moved to Miami after college. It was for the worst reason you should ever move anywhere: a boy. Ask anyone else during this time, including myself, and they’d tell you it was for a job. But the fact is, my “Monster” search (this was circa 2006, shut up) was set on Miami for one specific reason/person. And damn, does it feels good to finally admit that.
I spent seven years in the 305, and assumed every one of them would be my last; each time my lease came up for renewal, I’d question whether I was going to re-up, because “it wasn’t like I was going to stay here!” before settling on “OK, just one more year.”
Miami is vastly different than any other city in Florida, and even the country. It's sexy, it's paradise, it's ostensibly the capital of Latin America... but it's still Florida -- weird, swampy, slow-paced, easy to settle down. And it was this exact reason that made me want to eventually leave it. Nothing was glaringly wrong, but nothing was right, either. Eventually, there came a breaking point for me. The city I once loved began to lose its luster.