Kettle on, someone half dressed, my cereal in the crossfire. I live here. I work early. Your new friend does not need any kitchen tours.
Tag: flatshare
Club lighting lies. Your flat does not. Someone wants one more and I want my bed. I stay anyway and edit that story later on.
Times, trains, whose house after. I look organised. I am just frightened of being left in a doorway with nowhere to put this tired face.
I stand there doing maths like it is romance. London will charge you for lunch and still call it a deal. I laugh. I pay.
Bags by the door, uniform waiting, that low familiar dread. Even if the weekend was messy, the Monday reset feels like being marched straight back.
Good coat, dead eyes, phone already out. I do it too. The city rewards looking sorted. It never even asks if you even slept tonight.
I leave product everywhere. I know that. Still, if you use my mascara I will know. A shared flat is not a shared bloody face.
We made a colour coded masterpiece. Then someone pulled a late and the bathroom went feral. Systems die the first time a night out wins.
How many. How often. Who it was. That is not public property. Curiosity dressed as concern still wants a full guided tour of my sheets.
Numbers I can do. People I romanticise. That is why the spreadsheet looks adult and my Friday looks like a dare I already accepted tonight.