In those days, Evelyn had thought her modest two-bedroom flat on the seventh floor was her fortressnot grand, not luxurious, but hers. Every square foot had been earned through sleepless nights at the design agency, every piece of furniture chosen with care. The white towels in the bathroom hung precisely by size, her cosmetics lined up neatly on the shelf, and her dresses in the wardrobe were arranged by shade, lightest to darkest.
Oliver came into her life in November, as the first snowflakes danced outside. Tall, with tousled dark hair and a smile that made her knees weak. Theyd met at a café near Covent Gardenhed bumped her table passing by, spilling coffee on her cream blouse.
“Sorry, Im such a klutz,” hed muttered, offering napkins. “Let me at least pay for the dry cleaning.”
The blouse never quite recovered, but it didnt matter. Oliver was a photographer, shooting weddings and corporate events, living in a rented studio on the outskirts of London. He spoke about his projects with such passion that Evelyn could listen for hours.
The first months passed in a blur. Oliver showed up most evenings with flowers or a box of chocolates. They cooked dinners, watched films, made plans. Evelyn felt happier than she had in years, as if shed found the missing piece of a puzzle.
In February, with snow swirling outside, she asked him to move in.
“Why waste money on that tiny place?” she said, hugging him in the kitchen. “Theres plenty of room here.”
Oliver hesitated, muttering about independence, but finally agreed. He arrived in March with just two suitcases and his camera gear.
The first month was bliss. He tried to keep tidy, though not to Evelyns exacting standards. She let it slidemen were messy, after all. What did trouble her was that he never offered to chip in for bills or groceries. When she broached it, hed laugh it off or claim he was between jobs. She didnt press it. The flat was hers; she could manage.
Then, mid-April, everything changed.
Evelyn came home after a brutal daya client had rejected her third website design, demanding something “more creative,” and her boss hinted at unpaid overtime. All she wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine.
On the seventh floor, key in hand, she froze. Voices insideOlivers and a womans. He hadnt mentioned guests.
She stepped into the hall and stopped dead. On her beige sofa sat a stranger, mid-twenties, honey-blonde hair piled carelessly atop her head, wearing floral pyjamasnot exactly guest attire. The girl was painting her nails bubblegum pink, half-watching a telenovela.
“Hi,” the girl said airily, not looking up. “You must be Evelyn. Im Sophie, Olivers sister.”
Evelyn stood stunned. Oliver had mentioned a sister in passingnever details.
“Evie, youre home!” Oliver emerged from the kitchen, teacup in hand, slightly sheepish but grinning. “Meet Sophie. Remember I told you?”
“Vaguely,” Evelyn said flatly. “Why is she here?”
Oliver set the cup down and slung an arm around her. “Shes had a bit of trouble with her landlord. Needs a place to crash for a couple days while she sorts something.”
Evelyns stomach turned. “Our” flat? Hers. Her space.
“I see,” she said tightly. “And you thought to ask me?”
“Come on, Evie,” Oliver shrugged. “Its an emergency. Was I supposed to leave her on the street?”
Sophie finally glanced up. “Dont worry, Ill be invisible. Barely take up any room.” Her tonefalse breezinessset Evelyns teeth on edge.
“Fine,” Evelyn said, swallowing her anger. “How long?”
“Oh, just till I find somewhere,” Sophie said, waving a hand. “Already looking.”
Oliver kissed her cheek. “See? Sorted. Let me make you tea.”
In the kitchen, Evelyn found the sink piled with dishes, crumbs on the table, and her homemade stewmeant to last dayshalf-gone.
“Oliver,” she said quietly.
“Hm?”
“My stew.”
“Ohright. Sorry. Soph was hungry, and there wasnt much else. Ill shop tomorrow.”
Evelyn nodded, fury simmering. She held her tonguegood manners, no scenes in front of guests. But by bedtime, she snapped.
“Oliver, this is too much.”
“What is?”
“Your sister. You shouldve asked me.”
Oliver sat on the bed, taking her hands. “Evie, what was I supposed to do? She called in tears. I couldnt turn her away.”
“Not turn her away. Consult me. This is my flat, Oliver.”
“Our flat,” he corrected. “We live together.”
“But I pay for it.”
His face darkened. “So now youll hold that over me?”
“Im stating facts. Decisions like this should be mutual.”
“Fine, next time Ill ask. But its done now. Just a few days, okay?”
The next morning, Evelyn left early to avoid Sophie. That evening, the girl was still there, still in pyjamas, munching Evelyns apples.
“Any luck with flats?” Evelyn asked curtly.
“Still looking,” Sophie said, flipping channels. “Viewing some tomorrow.”
Her tone was infuriatingly casual. Evelyn retreated to the bedroom.
Days passed. Sophie didnt budge. Then Evelyn noticed her expensive face cream dwindling, her towel damp when she hadnt used it, her dresses rearranged. The violationsomeone pawing through her thingsmade her skin crawl.
“Oliver, did you use my cream? The silver jar?”
He looked up from his laptop. “What? No.”
“Then who did?”
“Evie, really? Counting cream?”
“Its not about the cream! Its about respect!”
Oliver laughed. “Christ, its my sister. Cant you share?”
“Not without permission!”
“Evie, calm down. Youre being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable? Shes been here a week, eating my food, using my things, doing nothing to leave!”
From the sofa, the TV went silent. Sophie was listening.
Oliver stood. “Ill talk to her tomorrow. Shell find something soon.”
“Not soonnow! Tomorrow!”
“Evie, be realistic. Flats dont appear overnight.”
“Then why hasnt she looked properly?”
Oliver just stared, as if seeing her anew. “Youve changed,” he said softly. “You used to be kind.”
“Kind to younot to freeloaders!”
“Freeloaders? Its my sister!”
“And who am I? Your landlady?”
“Youre my girlfriend. I thought we were building a life.”
Evelyn scoffed. “A life where you contribute nothing? Two months here, and youve paid zero rent, zero bills! I kept quiet because I loved having you here. But this?” She gestured to Sophie. “This is a step too far.”
Oliver paled. “I never realised you were so… possessive.”
That did it. Possessive? In her own home?
“And I never realised you were so entitled!” she shouted. “When you buy your own place, you can fill it with whoever you like! Until then, get outboth of you!”
Silence. Oliver nodded slowly. “Right. Understood.”
He packed his suitcasesthe same ones hed arrived with. “Soph, were leaving.”
Sophie appeared, finally dressed. “Seriously? Over cream?”
“Just go,” Evelyn said, not looking at Oliver.
At the door, he paused. “Evie… I thought love meant sharing. Clearly, I was wrong.”
The door shut. The lift whirred. Then silence.
Evelyn sank onto the sofaSophies spot. Oddly, it didnt feel contaminated now. Just hers. On the coffee table sat Sophies pink nail polishcheap, drugstore stuff. “Bubblegum Dream,” the label read.
She threw it in the bin.
Then she rearranged the towels, the dresses, the cosmetics. Order restored. Her order.
Sitting on the bed, she realised she was crying.
Her phone buzzeda message from Oliver, sent half an hour ago:
*Sorry. Never meant to hurt you. Just thought love wasnt about who owns what. Guess I was wrong.*
She deleted his number.
The flat was silent. Outside, London glitteredlives unfolding behind windows. She was home. Alone.
And somehow, the silence didnt comfort her. It just echoed.
Days later, cleaning out the wardrobe, she found an old shoeboxchildhood drawings, school certificates, photos. There she was at seven, on the new playground her mum had petitioned for. At eighteen, holding her first design award. In her first shoebox studio, walls plastered with fabric swatches.
