A box sits in the hall like a hostage. We all walk past it. Someone ordered something filthy or expensive, waiting for an empty house.
Tag: housemates
It is always damp and in the wrong rack. Shared gadgets turn grown women into detectives. I want my tray. I want my dignity back.
Three alarms, two hairdryers, one narrow corridor. I am not asking for a convent. I am asking not to start work already fully irritated today.
It was one box. It was mine. I would have said yes if you asked. Instead I come home hungry and start a proper grudge.
Someone muted the house chat mid row. Now we communicate through cupboard doors and passive tea making. Modern flatshare conflict is just delivered on silent.
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.
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.
Nice people go quiet. The group chat dries right up. Then the money leaves and we are mates again. Poverty makes all our manners seasonal.
No speech. Just the look and an extra mug on the side. Flatmates see the mascara and the hour. Lying is pretty pointless in here.