I’m lying here staring at the ceiling like we’re 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 — I allowed myself some treats).
I still remember the estate agent handing over the keys and me saying “cheers” like it was just another Tuesday. That was five years ago. I was nicer back then. Happier, anyway.
Now there’s mould in the bathroom corner, a damp patch in the hallway, exposed wiring in the bedroom, and a rattle in the kitchen pipes.
Nothing gets fixed anymore. 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 somewhere I could afford. Looked into selling, but I’d lose money.
So instead, I lie here. Ruminating. Because I own these walls. Every miserable square foot of them.
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