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.
Tag: tea
He talked numbers like it was sport. I wanted tea and a hand on my back. Performance reviews do not belong in my bed. Ever.
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.
I can do no-strings. I am genuinely good at it. Then someone makes tea properly and I invent a whole future they never once offered.
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.