Each small mess felt like a message: I don’t have to respect your space.
In the kitchen, she cooked like she was filming a lifestyle video, music playing from her phone, pans clanging, cabinets opening and closing with careless force. She made elaborate meals in the middle of the day, ingredients spread out like a storm. And when she finished, she left everything.
The sink filled with dishes, greasy and stacked. Pots with sauce drying on the sides. Utensils thrown in like she expected them to disappear.
“Vanessa,” I said the first time, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Can you clean up after you cook?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said without looking up, already scrolling her phone. “Later.”
Later never came.
The apartment smelled like garlic and stale food. The kitchen, once my calm corner where I meal-prepped on Sundays, became a place I avoided.
My utility bills jumped so fast it made my stomach drop when the statements arrived.
