Thought she’d gone to her mum’s. She hadn’t. Door opened, I was on all fours, he didn’t stop. She just said “for fuck’s sake Chels” and shut it. Breakfast was awkward.
Category: Flat Life
Sophie judges in silence. Mia leaves evidence. The kettle knows too much. Shared walls, shared leftovers, shoes that are not ours in the hall. Domestic chaos with better lighting than it deserves, frankly.
Look, I said he could get an Uber. He made coffee instead, used my good mug, and Sophie clocked the whole thing in her dressing gown. I still haven’t decided if that’s charming or a hostage situation.
Not as a trophy. As proof I didn’t invent him. Sophie asked why there’s a clipper on the windowsill that isn’t ours. I said it was Mia’s. Mia said it was mine.
Scorecards on the fridge. Marks for height, exit time, whether they made tea. Last night’s got a 6. Harsh but fair.
I didn’t cook it. He did. In my kitchen. Wearing yesterday. Sophie walked in, said “morning”, and put the kettle on like a saint.
Thin walls, worse timing. I wasn’t quiet and she wasn’t asleep. Next morning she just slid a Tesco meal deal under my door like a peace offering. We still haven’t discussed it. Peak.
She swears she asked. She didn’t. They came home with a scuff and a number in the sole. I’m keeping the number.
Thin walls. Thick voice. I’d apologise if I was sorry. I’m not. They play drum and bass at noon on Sundays, so I consider us even, actually.
At 4:12. I replied at 4:13 with a heart emoji. He has not followed up. Coward.