My usual days revolved around a routine I barely controlled: work from 9 to 5, swamped with emails and deadlines; quick dinners; and returns to this cramped living space where silence was a luxury.
I lived with a landlord who was rarely around but whose presence was always felt through sudden inspections or vague threats about rent increases.
I was juggling unpaid bills and a side gig just to keep afloat.
People counted on me being behind schedule or distracted, and I was stuck trying to manage expectations I never set.
The landlord had clear power over me, and it showed in how she dismissed my complaints about the dripping faucets or strange noises from the apartment above.
When I mentioned concerns about privacy or safety, she brushed me off, suggesting I should be grateful just to have a roof over my head.
Her silence on the weird happenings felt like a warning in itself—don’t poke around or ask questions.
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