Not sex this time. An actual argument. I put music on and hated myself for listening. Thin walls make you an unpaid bloody little witness.
Category: Flatshare Chaos
Not the scratchy one. The expensive one. Wet patch and stranger smell. Sex is fine here. Laundry diplomacy is how the real house wars start.
Bins, money, whose turn, why the hallway smells. Nobody booked a meeting. The kitchen just becomes court and I sit in last night’s makeup still.
He buys oat milk and never contributes to wifi. I did not advertise for a third flatmate with a hoodie and opinions about the remote.
She says it is casual. We still clock shoes, job, whether he rinsed a mug. This flat runs checks. Nobody asked. We do them anyway.
I can hear the message being recorded next door. Then it pings my phone. We live six feet apart and still perform distance like strangers.
Same kitchen. Same oat milk. Then a rose on the app. The house became an incubator with worse lighting. I shut the fridge, considered leaving.