Staring up. Not winning.

Can’t sleep. Again.

I’m lying here staring at the ceiling like we are having an argument. Don’t think I’m winning.

Buying this place was supposed to be a milestone. Something solid. I worked weekends, skipped nights out, and lived off Pot Noodles (Bombay Bad Boy. Allowed myself some treats).

I still remember the estate agent handing over the keys and me saying “cheers” like it was just another Tuesday. Then I walked around each room and whispered, “Ours.”

That was three years ago. I was nicer back then. Happier, anyway.

Now, there’s mould in the bathroom corner, a damp patch in the hallway, and a noise in the pipes, which I’ve decided is probably haunted.

But nothing gets fixed now. Not since I lost my proper job. I’m treading water at a 9–5 I think I’m better than, earning a shitty salary I need more than I want to admit.

I wish I’d rented. Then, at least, I could leave. Find something in budget.

Tried looking at selling, but I’d lose money.

So, instead, I lie here. Ruminating. Because I own these walls. I own the whole miserable square footage.

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