**Diary Entry – 10th November**
I always thought of my two-bedroom flat on the seventh floor as my fortress. Not the biggest or most lavish, but mine. Every square foot was earned through sleepless nights at the design agency, every piece of furniture chosen with care. The white towels in the bathroom hung perfectly by size, cosmetics lined up neatly on the shelf, dresses in the wardrobe arranged by shadelight to dark.
Oliver walked into my life in November, just as the first snowflakes swirled outside. Tall, with tousled dark hair and a smile that made my knees weak. We met in a café on Oxford Streethe bumped into my table, spilling coffee on my crisp white blouse.
Sorry, Im such a klutz, he mumbled, handing me napkins. Let me at least pay for the dry cleaning.
The blouse never fully recovered, but it didnt matter. Oliver was a photographer, shooting weddings and corporate events, renting a cramped studio flat on the outskirts of London. He talked about his projects with such passion, I could listen for hours.
The first few months blurred by. Oliver showed up most evenings with flowers or a box of chocolates. We cooked dinners, watched films, made plans. I felt happy, like Id finally found the missing piece.
In February, with a blizzard howling outside, I asked him to move in.
Why waste money on that shoebox? I said, hugging him in the kitchen. Theres plenty of space here.
He resisted at firstsomething about independencebut agreed in the end. He arrived in March with just two suitcases and his camera gear.
The first month was bliss. Oliver tried to keep things tidy, though not as meticulously as I liked. I let it slidemen were messy, after all. I quietly rewashed dishes, straightened towels, lined up shoes.
The only thing that nagged me? He never offered to split the bills or even buy groceries. When I brought it up, hed joke or say clients were slow this month. I didnt pushthe flat was mine, and I could manage alone.
Then mid-April changed everything.
I came home after a brutal daya client had rejected three website designs, demanding something more creative, and my boss hinted at unpaid overtime. All I wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine.
On the seventh floor, keys in hand, I froze. Voices carried through the doorOlivers and a womans. He hadnt mentioned guests.
I stepped inside and stopped dead. On my cream sofa sat a strangermid-twenties, blonde hair in a messy bun, wearing floral pyjamas. She glanced up from painting her nails neon pink, barely sparing me a look.
Hi, she said airily. You must be Emily. Im Sophie, Olivers sister.
I stared. Oliver had mentioned a sister in passingnever that she lived nearby.
Em, youre home! Oliver appeared from the kitchen, holding tea, smiling like nothing was amiss. Meet Sophie. Remember I told you about her?
Vaguely, I said flatly. Why is she here?
He set the mug down, draping an arm over my shoulders. Her landlords kicking her outhis sons back from uni. She just needs a few days to find a place.
My stomach turned. *Our* flat? This was *my* space.
You couldve asked, I said, forcing calm.
Come on, Em, he shrugged. Its an emergency. Was I supposed to leave her on the street?
Sophie finally looked up. Dont worry, Ill be quiet as a mouse. Barely take up space.
Her tonefake nonchalanceirritated me more than her presence.
Fine, I said. How long?
A day or two, she waved. Already flat-hunting.
Oliver kissed my cheek. See? Sorted.
In the kitchen, I found a sink full of dishes and crumbs on the table. My leftover shepherds piemeant to last two dayswas half-gone.
Oliver, I said quietly.
Yeah?
That was *my* dinner.
Oh. Sophie was hungry, and there wasnt much else.
I bit my tongue. That night, I finally snapped.
This is too much, I said as we got ready for bed.
What is?
Your sister. You didnt even *ask*.
He sat on the edge of the bed, taking my hands. Em, what was I supposed to do? She called crying this morning.
You consult me. This is *my* flat, Oliver.
*Our* flat, he corrected.
Paid for by *me*.
His face darkened. So now its about money?
Its about respect!
The next week was hell. Sophie camped on my sofa, ate my food, used my things. My expensive face cream dwindled; my towels were damp; dresses were rearranged.
One night, I exploded.
Shes rifling through my stuff!
Oliver laughed. Seriously? Counting cream grams now?
Its not *about the cream*! Its my home, and youre treating it like a hostel!
Shes *family*, Em.
*Im* your girlfriend! Or just your landlady?
His expression shiftedlike he didnt know me anymore.
I never took you for the possessive type.
That was it.
Get out, I said, voice shaking. Buy your own place, then invite whoever you want. Until then, take your sister and *leave*.
Silence. Then he nodded slowly.
Right. Got it.
He packed his two suitcases. Sophie, now in jeans, smirked as she grabbed a gym bag.
Cheers for the hospitality, she said.
Oliver hesitated at the door. Em, I thought we were building something
*Leave*.
The door shut. The lift hummed.
Alone, I rearranged the towels. Rehung the dresses. Threw Sophies garish nail polish in the bin.
My flat was perfect again.
Then I sat on the bed and cried.
His text came an hour later: *Sorry. I thought love meant sharing everything. Guess I was wrong.*
I deleted his number.
The silence was deafening.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldnt cost you your peaceor your home. Some people dont want to share your life; they want to take it over. And no smile is worth that price.
