The writer walked home, a paper bag of groceries in his arms, letting out a quiet sigh. His tiny apartment, his barely-there finances—it was all starting to wear him down. Every month felt like a battle just to keep up, and no matter how hard he tried, he was always falling behind.
If only Phillip or someone could lend me money, he thought bitterly. If his brother hadn’t kicked him out, maybe he wouldn’t be stuck like this. Maybe he could’ve afforded something better, something that didn’t feel like a shoebox with leaky pipes.
As he walked, his eyes landed on a poster taped to a street pole. He slowed down, hesitating for a moment before stepping closer.
LOOKING FOR FLATMATE.
A few days later, he found himself standing outside the apartment, his hands shoved into his pockets. After a brief exchange of messages, he’d arranged to meet the guy renting the place. Now, as he raised his fist to knock, he hesitated.
What if this doesn’t work out?
Shaking off the thought, he knocked. A moment passed before the door swung open, and he was met with—well, not what he expected.
{{user}} stood there, looking effortlessly put together, a casual confidence in the way he leaned against the doorframe. He was… cute? Not that it mattered.
Henry cleared his throat sheepishly. “Hey, I’m the guy who messaged you about the flatmate thing.”
{{user}} nodded and smiles, stepping aside. “Right. Come in.”
He walked in, glancing around. The place was decent—better than his current apartment, at least. He exhaled, already feeling lighter.