The creak of the bed is a constant in the quiet of my apartment.
It’s almost comforting in its predictability, yet unnerving in its implications.
Every night, lying there, I feel the tension in the ropes, the give in the pegs.
It’s as if the bed is whispering a warning, a reminder of all the things I can’t control.
Mr. Cunningham’s words echo in my head.
“Not worth bothering over,” he said with a shrug.
But it’s not his sleep that’s disturbed by the creaks and groans.
Not his peace that’s shattered by the fear of collapsing under the weight of a restless night.
I tried to fix it myself.
A few twists here, a few knots there.
But the fixes are temporary, like patching a sinking ship.
Every morning, I wake up to the same instability.
It’s a cycle of anxiety and exhaustion, and I feel trapped in it.
The inspection is supposed to bring order.
To make things right in this old building.
But what if it only makes things worse?
What if the inspector sees what Mr. Cunningham refuses to?
The thought makes my stomach twist.
I’m not sure I can handle another disappointment.
Another promise of change that never comes.
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