The dream began in a haze of cold November air, the kind that bites at your cheeks as you hurry down Oxford Street. Emily Thorpe had always seen her two-bedroom flat on the seventh floor as her castlenot grand, not lavish, 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 stood in neat rows, and her dresses in the wardrobe were ordered by shade, light to dark.
Oliver Whitmore drifted into her life like the first snowflakes outside her windowtall, with tousled dark hair and a smile that made her knees weak. Theyd met at a café near Covent Garden when hed bumped her table, sending coffee splashing across her cream blouse. “Sorry, Im a proper klutz,” hed mumbled, offering napkins. “Let me at least pay for the dry cleaning.”
The stain never came out, but it didnt matter. Oliver was a photographer, scraping by on wedding gigs and corporate events, renting a cramped studio in Croydon. He talked about his work with such passion that Emily could listen for hours.
The first months blurred past. Oliver arrived most evenings with flowers or a box of chocolates. They cooked dinners, watched films, made plans. Emily felt whole, as if shed slotted the last piece of a puzzle into place.
By February, with sleet lashing the windows, she asked him to move in. “Why waste money on that shoebox?” she said, hugging him in the kitchen. “Theres room here for both of us.”
Oliver hesitated, muttering about independence, but by March, hed arrived with two suitcases and his camera gear.
The first month was golden. Oliver tried to keep tidy, though his efforts were haphazard. Emily bit her tongue, rewashing dishes, straightening towels. Only one thing gnawed at herhe never offered to split bills or buy groceries. When she brought it up, hed laugh it off. “Clients are slow this month,” hed say. She didnt press. The flat was hers, after all.
Then, mid-April, everything shifted.
Emily returned from a brutal daya client had rejected her third website design, demanding something “more edgy,” and her boss hinted at unpaid overtime. All she wanted was a bath and wine.
On the seventh floor, she froze. Voices spilled from her flatOlivers and a womans. She frowned. He hadnt mentioned guests.
Inside, the scene snapped into focus: a stranger lounged on her cream sofa. Early twenties, honey-blonde hair in a messy bun, wearing pajamas dotted with daisiesnot exactly guest attire. The girl glanced up from painting her nails neon pink. “Oh, hey,” she said, as if Emily were the intruder. “You must be Emily. Im Sophie, Olivers sister.”
Emily stood rigid. Oliver had mentioned Sophie in passing”lives somewhere in Essex”but never in detail.
“Em, youre back!” Oliver appeared, grinning. “Meet Sophie. Remember I told you about her?”
“Vaguely,” Emily said flatly. “Why is she here?”
Oliver rubbed his neck. “Landlords kicking her out. Nephews back from uni, needs the room. She just needs a few days to find somewhere.”
Emilys blood chilled. *Our* flat? This was *her* territory. “You couldve asked,” she said.
“Come on, Em. Its an emergency. Was I supposed to leave her on the street?”
Sophie waved a hand. “Dont worry, Im quiet as a mouse.” Her tone dripped with false ease, grating Emilys nerves.
That night, she finally snapped. “Oliver, this isnt okay. You dont just move people into *my* flat.”
He looked wounded. “I thought we were building a life together.”
“By freeloading? You havent paid a penny toward bills!”
His face darkened. “Wow. So now its your flat? I thought love didnt keep score.”
“Love doesnt exploit, either,” she shot back. “Get out. Both of you.”
The silence after they left was deafening. Emily sat on the edge of her bed, tears dripping onto her hands. On the nightstand, her phone lit up with Olivers final text: *”Sorry. I thought love meant sharing everything. Guess I was wrong.”*
She deleted his number.
The flat was hers again. Perfect. Ordered.
And somehow, it felt emptier than ever.
