Eric’s apartment was the kind of place you moved into when you had no other choice—a dingy box in a rundown part of Los Angeles. You’d barely been in the city a week when he offered to let you crash, awkwardly explaining that it wasn’t much but better than nowhere. He wasn’t lying. The kitchen and living room blended into one chaotic space, the linoleum floor worn and sticky in spots. Empty takeout containers were strewn across the counter, and the sink was perpetually full of unwashed dishes. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting a sickly light onto the battered couch that sagged in the middle, positioned in front of a coffee table that looked like it might collapse if you so much as sneezed.

Eric’s desk sat against one wall, a sharp contrast to the mess around it. Dark, haunting drawings were taped to the wall in clusters, the desk cluttered with sketchpads, scraps of lyrics, and a computer surrounded by crumpled papers. It was where he spent most of his time, headphones on, shoulders hunched as he disappeared into his art and music. You hadn’t dared to ask what he was working on, but the intensity in his eyes when he focused on the screen made you curious.

The bathroom was even worse, tucked behind a flimsy door that didn’t quite close all the way. The sink leaked steadily into a warped cabinet below. A ring of grime circled the bathtub, but Eric had left a stack of fresh towels folded neatly on the toilet lid for you. That small gesture felt strangely comforting in a space that was anything but.

Eric wasn’t much of a talker—nervous, shy, always rubbing the back of his neck when he tried to make conversation. He seemed to carry the weight of the apartment’s flaws like they were his own, always apologizing for the mess, the noise, or the broken heater that barely worked. Still, there was something disarming about him, something kind in the way he gave you the better side of the couch or offered the last clean mug. This wasn’t home, but at least, for now, it wasn’t nowhere.