I stumble through the front door of my cramped apartment just past midnight, the sour tang of cheap whiskey thick on my breath. The buzzing hum of the flickering hallway light seems sharper tonight, and I barely manage to shut the door before I collapse against it, eyes half-shut, trying to steady myself.
Something feels off—my apartment is colder than usual, a faint smell that I can’t place turns the pit of my stomach uneasy, as if I’m not entirely welcome here anymore.
Life’s routines haven’t been easy lately. I work a dull office job during the day, the kind where you clock in, clock out, and nobody really notices you until something breaks or is overdue.
The evenings are usually quiet—me cooking a simple dinner, scrolling through my phone, trying to ignore the nagging restlessness. Lately, those nights end in a bottle, trying to push down the weight of small failures and mounting questions I don’t want to face.
At the heart of this is my landlord. He’s never outright said anything, but every time I’ve fallen behind on rent, his casual visits become less friendly—checking the pipes, asking if anything’s broken, watching me like I’m less than a tenant and more a problem.
His silence when I ask about rent extensions is sharper than any refusal. I can’t shake the feeling he’s been letting other tenants move in who can pay more, and I’m just trying to keep my head above water while he waits for me to mess up.
In the past month, things have steadily chipped away at me. First, the boiler stopped working two weeks ago, whole days and nights spent shivering while I waited for a useless repairman.
Then, a week ago, I missed some work hours because I was too drained to drag myself out of bed, and my supervisor made a pointed comment about reliability.
Three days later, I caught the landlord outside my door talking with someone I vaguely recognized from the building’s management office.
Yesterday, a neighbor muttered something about a notice posted on the bulletin board—something about rent hikes coming soon.
Tomorrow, there’s a scheduled meeting with my supervisor to discuss my recent performance. I haven’t called in sick or apologized properly, and I dread the conversation.
The landlord mentioned maybe coming by tomorrow afternoon “to check a problem with the plumbing,” which feels like thinly veiled intimidation.
I’m trying to avoid both meetings, believe me, hoping to drown out the rest with another drink.
But I know these moments are converging. I just don’t know which one will break me first.
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