“Buy your own flat, then you can have whoever you want living in it! Until then, get outboth of you!”
Emily had always considered her two-bedroom flat on the seventh floor her fortress. Not the biggest, not the most luxurious, but hers. Every square metre had been earned through sleepless nights at the design agency, every piece of furniture carefully chosen with taste. The white towels in the bathroom hung strictly by size, her makeup stood in neat rows on the shelf, and her dresses in the wardrobe were arranged by colourlightest to darkest.
Oliver came into her life in November, when the first snowflakes swirled outside. Tall, with tousled dark hair and a smile that made Emilys knees weak. Theyd met in a café on Oxford Streethed bumped into her table, spilling coffee on her white blouse.
“Sorry, Im such a klutz,” he muttered, handing her napkins. “Let me at least pay for the dry cleaning.”
The blouse was ruined, but it didnt matter. Oliver was a photographer, shooting weddings and corporate events, renting a tiny flat on the outskirts of London. He spoke about his projects with such passion that Emily could listen for hours.
The first few months passed in a blur. Oliver turned up most evenings with flowers or a box of chocolates. They cooked dinners, watched films, made plans. Emily felt happy, as if shed found the missing piece of a puzzle.
In February, during a snowstorm, she suggested he move in.
“Why waste money on that shoebox?” she said, hugging him in the kitchen. “Theres plenty of space here for both of us.”
Oliver hesitated, muttering about independence, but eventually agreed. He moved in March, bringing just two suitcases and his camera gear.
The first month was bliss. Oliver tried to keep things tidy, though not to Emilys exacting standards. She let it slidemen were messy, after all. She quietly rewrapped towels, realigned shoes.
Only one thing niggled: Oliver never offered to chip in for bills or groceries. When she gently brought it up, he joked it off or claimed work was slow. Emily didnt pushit was her flat, after all. She could manage.
Then, mid-April, everything changed.
Emily returned 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 bath and wine.
On the seventh floor, she froze. Voices carried through the doorOlivers and a womans. He hadnt mentioned guests.
Inside, a stranger lounged on her cream sofa. Mid-twenties, blonde hair piled up, wearing pyjamasdefinitely not guest attire. The girl painted her nails neon pink, half-watching a telenovela.
“Hi,” the girl said without looking up. “You must be Emily. Im Sophie, Olivers sister.”
Emily stood stunned. Oliver had barely mentioned a sisterjust that she lived “somewhere in Croydon.”
“Em, youre back!” Oliver appeared from the kitchen, holding tea. He looked sheepish but grinned as if nothing were amiss. “Meet Sophie. Remember I told you about her?”
“Vaguely,” Emily said coldly. “Why is she here?”
Oliver set the tea down and squeezed her shoulders. “Landlords kicking her outsons back from uni. She just needs a few days to find a place.”
Emilys stomach iced over. “Our” flat? Hers. Her territory. No one invited strangers here without asking.
“Really. And you couldnt ask me first?”
“Em, its an emergency. Was I supposed to leave her on the street?”
Sophie finally glanced up. “Relax, I wont be in your way. Im quiet as a mouse.”
Her faux-casual tone grated more than her presence.
“Fine,” Emily said tightly. “How long?”
“Day or two,” Sophie shrugged. “Already flat-hunting.”
Oliver kissed her cheek. “See? Sorted. Ill make you tea.”
The kitchen was a messdirty dishes, crumbs, the bolognese shed made yesterday nearly gone.
“Oliver.”
“Hmm?”
“That was my dinner.”
“Ohsorry. Soph was starving, and there wasnt much else. Ill shop tomorrow.”
Emily nodded, fury simmering. She stayed quietgood mannersbut each minute stoked her anger.
That night, she snapped.
“Oliver, this is too much.”
“What?”
“Your sister. You shouldve asked me.”
He sat on the bed, took her hands. “Em, she called crying this morning. What was I supposed to do?”
“Not abandon her. But consult me. This is my flat.”
“Our flat,” he said. “We live together.”
“I pay for it alone.”
Oliver scowled. “So now its a weapon?”
“Its a fact. Big decisions should be joint.”
“Fine, next time Ill ask. But shell be gone soon.”
Next evening, Sophie was still there, same pyjamas, eating Emilys apples.
“Any luck flat-hunting?” Emily asked curtly.
“Looking tomorrow,” Sophie said breezily, as if discussing brunch plans.
Two more days passed. Sophie hadnt moved, hadnt searched. But Emily noticed other things: her expensive face cream depleted, damp towels she hadnt used, dresses rearranged.
Someone had touched her things. Used them. The violation made her skin crawl.
“Oliver, did you use my cream? The silver jar?”
He looked up from his laptop. “What? No.”
“Towels?”
“I use mine. Whats wrong?”
“Someones using my things.”
Oliver laughed. “Seriously? Youre counting grams of cream now?”
“Its not about the cream! Its privacy!”
“So what? Sophies family.”
“Shes a stranger to me!”
“Emily, shes my sister. Cant you share?”
“Its not sharing when no one asks!”
Oliver stood. “Youre blowing this out of proportion.”
“‘Calm down’ just makes it worse,” she seethed.
“Then what? Kick her out over cream?”
“Yes! And while were at itwhens she leaving? Its been a week!”
“Shes looking”
“Liar!” Emily exploded. “Shes on my sofa, eating my food, using my things, doing nothing!”
The TV clicked off. Sophie pretended not to hear.
“Em, lower your voice.”
“Why? So she wont hear shes overstayed?”
Oliver paled. “I thought we were building something serious.”
“With unilateral decisions? While I pay for everything?”
“Youre being possessive.”
That did it. Possessive? In her own home?
“Youre the one whos shameless!” she shouted. “Living here rent-free, bringing guests uninvited, then acting like Im unreasonable!”
Silence.
Finally, Oliver nodded. “Right. Got it.”
He packed his suitcasesthe same ones hed arrived with. “Soph, were leaving.”
“What? Why?” Sophie appeared, now in jeansfirst time all week.
“Emily doesnt want us here.”
Sophie smirked at Emily. “Over cream? Pathetic.”
“Soph, leave it,” Oliver said.
“Already packed.” She hauled out a duffel bag from behind the sofapacked the whole time.
“Bye,” Sophie said, breezing past. “Cheers for the hospitality.”
Oliver lingered. “Em”
“Go.”
The door shut. The lift whirred. Silence.
Emily sank onto the sofaSophies spot. It didnt feel tainted now. Just hers again.
On the coffee table: a cheap bottle of “Pink Dream” nail polish. Forgotten. She tossed it.
She realigned towels, reordered dresses, neatened makeup. Her flat. Her rules.
Then she sat on the bed and cried.
Sunday. No plans. Just quiet. Alone.
Her phone buzzedOliver, half an hour ago:
*Sorry. Never meant to hurt you. Thought love meant sharing without keeping score. Guess I was wrong.*
She deleted his number.
The silence was deafening. Outside, London glitteredlives playing out behind windows.
She was home. Alone.
And somehow, it felt emptier than expected.
The quiet didnt bring reliefit echoed. She wiped tears, but Olivers words stuck: *Love shouldnt care whose flat it is.* Manipulation. Shed shared everything; hed only brought problems.
In the living room, she spotted Sophies plastic hairclip beside the bin. A deliberate marker. She hurled it away, but the violation lingered.
She cleaned obsessivelyhis mug, his shower gel, even his toothpaste. Scrubbed floors, changed sheets, aired the flat. Exhaustion dulled the pain.
But anxiety crept in. He
