Aarav Malik
The Flatmate Interview from Hell
Neil Patel had never considered himself particularly unlucky. He had a stable job, a reliable (if slightly moldy) flat in West London, and a wardrobe that was ninety percent navy blue. But when his longtime flatmate Raj moved out—citing “creative differences” after one too many passive-aggressive notes about unwashed dishes—Neil found himself diving headfirst into a living nightmare: interviewing strangers from the internet.
It began on a Tuesday. Neil had placed a straightforward ad on a flatmate website. No smokers, no party animals, no pets that bark, bite, or recite Sanskrit. Just a normal human with a steady job and an understanding of dish soap. Was that too much to ask?
Apparently, yes. The first applicant arrived wearing a cloak. Not a hoodie. A full-on, floor-length, black velvet cloak. He introduced himself as Raven. Just Raven. No last name. When Neil asked what he did for a living, Raven whispered, “I am a night gardener.” Neil blinked twice and thanked him for his time without making eye contact.
The second was a woman who brought her pet parrot to the interview. The parrot kept squawking “Liar! Liar!” every time Neil opened his mouth. He wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or alarmed.
By the fifth interview, Neil had mentally given up. The parade of oddballs continued—one man who insisted on turning the living room into a miniature shrine for his kombucha jars, and another who asked if the building’s Wi-Fi could “handle his Bitcoin mining rig.”
Neil sat on the couch, surrounded by the debris of takeout containers and emotional fatigue, considering whether solitary confinement might actually be better than sharing a flat ever again.
And then Zara Shah arrived.
She didn’t knock. She texted:
“Your next victim is downstairs. Do I buzz myself in or do you trust humanity?”
He buzzed her in. She stepped inside, dropped her backpack at the door, looked around at the IKEA furniture and dying succulents, and said, “Cozy. Slightly depressing. But I like that in a home.”
Neil stared. She was barefoot, holding a tote bag with the words Eat, Sleep, Resist, Repeat, and had a pen tucked into her bun like a weapon. She flopped onto the couch, crossed her legs, and looked at him like she was the interviewer.
“So,” she said, “do you snore?”
He blinked. “Um, I don’t think so.”
“Do you use oat milk or cow milk?”
“I… just regular milk?” “Ew.” She made a face. “Fine, I’ll label mine. Drama gives me hives. So does dairy. I once left a flat because my roommate tried to convince me astrology was a legitimate science. Where do you stand on horoscopes?” “I don’t,” he said.
“Good. I’m allergic to Scorpio men.”
He wasn’t sure if she was joking, but he liked her.
She stood up. “Show me the kitchen.”
He followed her in. She examined the fridge like a detective, poked at the oven dials, and sniffed the dish sponge with theatrical disgust. “Okay, so we’ll need a new sponge. And I’ll bring my own cast iron skillet. I don’t trust men with non-stick pans.”
“Is that a… thing?”
“Everything is a thing, Neil.”
“How do you know my name?”
She turned around and grinned. “I Googled you.”
He blinked again. “You what?”
“You put your full name on the listing. It’s public information. Don’t worry—I didn’t stalk your mom or anything.”
“She’d probably tell you everything if you just asked.”
Zara moved into the spare bedroom two days later.
Neil’s mother was thrilled that a girl was moving in. “Finally,” she said over the phone, “someone to tidy up your personality.”
“It’s not like that, Mom,” Neil sighed. “She’s just a flatmate.”
“She’s a girl.” “She’s also allergic to milk, men who snore, and Scorpios.” “Ah,” his mother said wisely. “Then it’s serious.”
It wasn’t. Not like that. Zara came and went like a summer storm—messy, bright, unpredictable. She filled the apartment with music, half-burnt candles, potted basil plants, and smells that made Neil both hungry and afraid. She laughed at her own jokes. She narrated her cooking experiments like she was hosting a reality show. She stuck post-it notes on the fridge with quotes like, “Today’s goal: Don’t set the kitchen on fire.”
Neil, who had lived in quiet predictability for years, suddenly found himself laughing more than he ever had.
One evening, she stood in the doorway of the living room holding two mugs. “Tea?”
“What’s in it?” he asked cautiously.
“Calm down, Sherlock. It’s just chamomile.”
He took the mug. “Thanks.”
She sat beside him, tucking her feet underneath her. “You’re not so bad, you know.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. “Neither are you.”
There was a pause. Then she added, “Except your playlist. Your playlist is objectively bad.”
“Hey! That’s a curated list of deeply nostalgic hits from the early 2000s.”
She snorted. “It’s the soundtrack of someone who peaked in eighth grade.”
Neil raised an eyebrow. “Says the woman who owns a kazoo.”
“It’s a valid instrument.”
“You played Bohemian Rhapsody on it.”
“Art,” she declared. “That was performance art.” He laughed. Genuinely. And for the first time in weeks, Neil felt like things might be okay again.
Of Broken Toasters and Burnt Offerings
Neil’s idea of breakfast was efficient and emotionally distant: toast, peanut butter, coffee, silence. He believed in the sacred ritual of not speaking before 9 a.m., a rule Zara broke every morning with the same reckless joy she brought to indoor roller skating and unsolicited life advice.
“Morning, sunshine!” she sang at 7:42 a.m., barging into the kitchen in neon-green pajamas covered in pineapples.
Neil blinked at her over his coffee. “It’s too early for fruit-themed violence.”
She ignored him, dumped a handful of spinach into a blender, added a scoop of something that resembled moss, and hit the switch.
The blender screamed.
“So,” she said over the roar, “guess what I dreamed last night?”
“Something involving goats and a dystopian lemon cult?”
“Close!” She poured the green sludge into a jar, gave it a shake, and took a sip. “I dreamed our toaster was trying to communicate with me. Like, emotionally.”
Neil looked at the toaster. “Did it say it wanted a new owner?”
“It said it was tired of mediocrity.”
He sipped his coffee. “A mood.”
Zara’s relationship with the kitchen was what Neil kindly referred to as “chaotic-good.” She believed in herbs he couldn’t pronounce, made soup out of things that shouldn’t be blended, and left trails of turmeric like she was Hansel with a spice cabinet. The cutting board was stained orange, the fridge smelled like kimchi and rebellion, and the smoke detector had been triggered more times than Neil’s dating app.
One particular Thursday, Neil came home to find smoke billowing from the kitchen and Zara fanning the window with a baking tray.
“Do I want to know?” he asked, dropping his bag.
“I attempted sourdough,” she said, voice raspy from the haze. “It fought back.”
Neil stepped inside cautiously. The oven door was open. A black, crusted mass sat on a tray, smoking gently.
He poked it with a spatula. “Is it… alive?”
“Dead. Like my dreams.”
“What exactly went wrong?”
“Existential despair.”
“No, I meant the dough.”
“Oh. I forgot to feed the starter.”
Neil stared. “You left a living thing to starve and then baked its corpse?”
Zara collapsed dramatically into a chair. “Baking is hard, Neil. It’s like science, but judgmental.”
He opened the fridge, searching for something edible. “Did you break anything else today?”
“Only the toaster.”
He froze. “What?”
She pointed.
The toaster, once a shiny silver rectangle, was now a blackened, melted monument to poor decision-making. The lever dangled sadly. A piece of charred bread was fused to its interior like a burnt offering to the breakfast gods.
Neil gaped. “How—how do you even melt a toaster?”
“I tried to toast focaccia.”
“Why?”
“I was hungry.” “That’s not toast. That’s a lunch item!”
She folded her arms. “Don’t food-shame me.”
Neil sighed and opened the window wider. “Do you know how expensive that toaster was?”
“Probably less than my emotional damage from this baking failure.”
He grabbed a pack of instant noodles from the cupboard. “I’m cooking. You’re banned for the day.”
She gasped. “You? Cooking? Is this a cry for help?” “It’s survival.”
Ten minutes later, the noodles were bubbling. Neil, proud of himself, even added an egg. Zara watched like it was a live episode of MasterChef.
“This is… weirdly domestic,” she said. “Us. You. Cooking.”
He smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”
She poked the toaster remains. “So… we need a new one.”
“Yes,” Neil said flatly.
“Do you want me to pick one up?”
“No.”
“I have taste.”
“You have opinions.”
She grinned. “Correct.” Later that night, Zara appeared in the living room holding her phone like a trophy. “I found the toaster of our dreams.”
Neil looked up from his laptop. “Is it fireproof?”
“Better. It’s vintage. Copper finish. Two slots. A personality.”
“It’s a toaster. It’s not applying for a job.”
She turned the screen toward him. “Look at this beauty.”
He squinted. “Why does it cost £85?”
“It’s aesthetic!”
“It’s a kitchen appliance, not a lifestyle coach.”
She pouted. “Fine. You pick one.”
The next day, Neil returned with a dull, gray, no-nonsense toaster that looked like it came from a prison cafeteria.
Zara frowned. “This is the most boring toaster I’ve ever seen.”
“Exactly.”
“I feel personally attacked.”
“You should.”
For the next week, the toaster became a symbol of their cohabitation war. Neil toasted bread like a minimalist monk. Zara tried to fit croissants in it sideways. She once melted cheese directly inside it “as an experiment.” Neil nearly fainted.
Eventually, they found a rhythm. She cooked chaos. He cleaned with grim efficiency. She played jazz while kneading dough. He wore noise-cancelling headphones and filed taxes. Every now and then, when the toaster beeped softly, it felt like the apartment had found a heartbeat.
On a sleepy Sunday morning, Zara handed Neil a piece of toast—perfectly golden, buttered, and topped with a thin layer of jam.
“I didn’t burn it,” she said proudly.
He took a bite. “It’s not bad.”
She looked smug. “We’ve grown.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We? Or just the toaster?”
She patted it fondly. “All of us, Neil. All of us.”
And somehow, in a flat where the plants died and the oven groaned in protest, in a kitchen that survived wars between focaccia and fire alarms, breakfast had become the most peaceful part of their day.
Even if the smoke detector still beeped once in a while—just to remind them who was boss.
The Date (That Everyone Attended)
Neil Patel wasn’t the dating type. Or, more precisely, he wasn’t the being-dated type. He had tried a few apps, one disastrous speed dating event (he accidentally flirted with someone’s mum), and a blind date that ended with the woman telling him, “You’d make a great plant owner.” That was three months ago. He hadn’t recovered.
Zara, on the other hand, believed in the full-contact sport of modern romance. She swiped with flair, scheduled coffee meetups like job interviews, and kept a spreadsheet titled “Zara’s Romance Retrospective” that included tags like “Emotionally Unavailable,” “Too Into LARPing,” and “Smelled Like Regret.”
So when she announced one Friday morning, “I’ve set you up on a date,” Neil almost dropped his toothbrush into the sink.
“You what?” he mumbled, toothpaste foaming in his mouth.
“His name is Maya. She’s a graphic designer. She owns plants and knows how to keep them alive.”
“Isn’t Maya a she?”
“Yes, and?”
Neil paused. “You said ‘his name is—’”
Zara waved dismissively. “Focus, Neil. It’s a date. Tomorrow. 6 p.m. Café Flora.”
He spat out his toothpaste. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re going,” she sang, already walking out the door.
Neil spent the rest of the day in mild panic. What did you even wear to a date you were tricked into? Could he pretend to be someone else? Maybe show up with a fake accent and claim witness protection? But Zara had already texted Maya his photo (without asking, obviously) and described him as “awkward, nerdy, charming once you get past the sarcasm armor.”
Thanks, Zara. The next evening, Neil debated between three nearly identical shirts, all in varying shades of “safe.” He finally settled on the least wrinkled one and headed to Café Flora, which smelled like rose tea and pretension. He was five minutes early. Maya arrived exactly on time.
She was tall, elegant, and wearing a red dress that said, “I make effort.” Neil, in his department store navy-blue shirt, suddenly felt like a paperclip at a masquerade ball.
“Hi,” she said with a warm smile.
“Hi,” he replied, awkwardly gesturing toward the table. “I’m Neil. As advertised.”
She laughed. “Zara said you’d say something like that.”
Of course she did. They ordered. Maya got some floral-infused tea. Neil asked for black coffee, plain, which Maya looked at like he’d just confessed to eating crayons.
“So,” she said, sipping her drink, “Zara tells me you’re a software engineer?”
“Guilty,” he said. “And you’re a graphic designer?”
“I am. I do freelance branding and occasional mural work for cafés.”
“That explains the aesthetic choices,” Neil said, gesturing around.
“They’re mine,” she said smugly. “The hanging lights and leaf-patterned wallpaper? All me.”
Neil nodded appreciatively. “Well, I appreciate your contribution to the war against beige walls.”
So far, so good.
And then Zara walked in.
Wearing sunglasses.
And holding a takeaway coffee.
She waved like she was a celebrity at a fan convention.
Neil stared. “You’re… here?”
“Emotional support,” she whispered, sliding into the booth beside Maya. “Don’t mind me.”
Maya looked amused. “This is normal?”
“No,” Neil said flatly. “This is sabotage.”
“I’m a wingwoman,” Zara corrected, taking a sip. “Also, I was bored.”
Neil looked at Maya. “I swear I didn’t plan this.” Maya grinned. “I think it’s kind of adorable.” Zara pulled out a bag of popcorn from her tote. “Carry on.” Neil wanted to melt into the faux-marble floor. They tried to resume the date. Maya talked about her latest client—a vegan bakery that insisted every design have “moon energy.” Neil shared a story about debugging a code loop at 3 a.m. that turned out to be a missing semicolon. Maya laughed in all the right places.
Zara, meanwhile, made running commentary under her breath. “Good joke. That landed. Neil’s blushing. Cute.” She was live-tweeting their vibe in her mind.
When their food arrived, Zara finally stood up. “Alright, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your carbs.”
Neil looked up, suspicious. “Why now?”
“I have a date,” she winked. “Unlike you two, I actually get asked out.”
Maya smiled. “Thanks for the company.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Neil muttered.
Zara left with a dramatic twirl. The room felt quieter. And somehow… flatter.
“So,” Maya said, “is it weird that I kind of miss her already?”
Neil sighed. “No. That’s exactly the problem.”
The rest of the evening was pleasant but strained. Maya was lovely—funny, sharp, interesting—but Neil couldn’t shake the feeling that something essential had left the table along with Zara. Her chaotic energy had filled the gaps, broken the ice, made everything brighter.
After they said goodbye and exchanged polite “let’s do this again” lines, Neil walked home feeling unsure. When he opened the door, he found Zara sitting on the floor in pajamas, eating cereal straight from the box.
“How’d it go?” she asked without looking up.
“Fine,” he said, dropping onto the couch. “She was cool.”
“But?”
“But I kept expecting you to interrupt with weird commentary.”
She grinned. “You missed me.”
He threw a cushion at her. “You’re unbearable.”
“Say it louder. I feed on male discomfort.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then she asked, “Are you going to see her again?”
“Maybe.”
“Cool.”
She passed him the cereal box. He took a handful.
And in that quiet, snack-filled moment, Neil realized something both wonderful and terrifying.
His favorite part of the evening hadn’t been the date.
It had been this.
Zara. Her nonsense. Their mess.
Together.
The Great Cockroach War
It began on a Tuesday morning. Which was, in Neil’s experience, the worst possible time for anything to begin.
He shuffled into the kitchen in his usual groggy 8:12 a.m. state, expecting the ordinary: Zara humming off-key, something organic bubbling in a saucepan, and a misplaced slipper under the table. What he did not expect was a cockroach—large, bold, and outrageously confident—sitting on the kitchen counter like it paid rent.
He screamed.
Not a dignified yelp. A full-throated, startled, movie-extra-in-a-slasher-flick scream.
Zara rushed in moments later, wielding a spatula like a weapon. “What? What happened? Did you accidentally eat gluten again?”
Neil pointed with a trembling hand. “It’s there. It’s sitting there. Like it owns the flat.”
Zara squinted. “Oh, hello little friend.”
Neil recoiled. “Friend?”
She dropped the spatula. “Relax. It’s just a cockroach. Probably named Rohan.”
“You gave it a name?”
“I feel like he has good energy.”
Neil stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Zara, it has antennae. Nothing with antennae should have good energy.”
“Do you want to kill it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I won’t let you. We can trap it and relocate it.”
“You’re going to evict the cockroach ethically?”
“Exactly.”
And so, the flat was plunged into a standoff that would become known—at least in Neil’s increasingly dramatic internal monologue—as The Great Cockroach War.
Day One: Zara left a breadcrumb trail leading from the counter to a glass jar. Rohan ignored it, scuttled behind the toaster (the new one), and disappeared for hours.
Neil sprayed the perimeter with peppermint oil. Zara yelled at him for “violating the sanctity of olfactory peace.”
Day Two: Zara declared that Rohan was nocturnal. She sat in the kitchen with a book and a flashlight, determined to “commune with him when the moon is high.” Neil watched her set up her stakeout with a sense of exhausted dread.
“He’s not a vampire,” Neil muttered. “He’s a bug.”
Zara shushed him. “You have no poetry in your soul.”
Day Three: Neil took matters into his own hands. He brought home a small, discreet, definitely lethal cockroach trap from the hardware store. He placed it behind the trash bin like a covert assassin. It was discovered within an hour.
Zara stood in the doorway, holding the trap like it was a bloodied knife. “This is betrayal.”
“This is pest control!”
“He has a family.”
Neil nearly burst a vein. “He is a cockroach! He doesn’t pay rent! He doesn’t do dishes! He doesn’t even wipe down counters after himself!”
“He’s not the only one in this flat guilty of that,” she muttered darkly.
Neil stormed out. Rohan scuttled by his foot in protest.
Day Four: They declared a truce.
“We set boundaries,” Zara said, drawing an invisible line on the kitchen tiles. “He stays on that side. We stay on ours.”
Neil nodded solemnly. “If he crosses it, I reserve the right to scream.”
“Deal.”
For three days, Rohan abided by the rules. Peace returned. Zara resumed burning strange-smelling incense in the mornings. Neil reclaimed his corner of the kitchen. Life, remarkably, felt normal.
Until Rohan reappeared—boldly climbing the wall above the sink just as Zara was making lentil stew.
She gasped.
Neil looked up from his laptop. “What is it?”
She pointed, wordless. Her eyes were wide.
Rohan had crossed the line.
“Oh, now you panic?” Neil said, standing up.
“I think he’s grown,” she whispered.
Neil nodded. “He feeds on your optimism.”
Together, they tried everything: gentle coaxing (Zara), rapid swatting (Neil), and one ill-fated attempt to trap him under a bowl. Rohan dodged all attacks. He was a veteran now.
Eventually, exhausted and ashamed, they sat on the floor eating toast and staring up at the now-empty wall.
“I think he’s gone,” Zara said softly.
Neil sighed. “Maybe he moved into the neighbor’s flat.”
“Maybe he’s writing a memoir.”
“Rohan: My Time Among the Humans?”
“I’d read it.”
They laughed, the kind of laughter that comes after shared trauma and poorly seasoned toast.
A week later, Rohan returned—dead.
They found him lying on his back behind the microwave. Neil poked him with a spoon. No movement.
Zara frowned. “Did your trap finally work?”
“No. I threw it out.”
“Did he just… die?”
Neil stood solemnly. “He was old. A warrior. He went out with honor.”
They held a brief memorial. Zara lit a candle. Neil flushed him down the toilet. There were no tears, only relief.
The kitchen felt quieter. Emptier.
Zara turned to Neil as he washed his hands. “You know, I kind of miss him.”
Neil gave her a look. “You need to get out more.”
“Maybe.”
“But not into the walls.”
Zara smiled. “Deal.”
And with that, The Great Cockroach War ended—not with a battle, but with a toilet flush and a reluctant goodbye.
The Flatmate Olympics
It was raining. Not a gentle drizzle or a poetic sprinkle—no, this was biblical, furniture-floating, ducks-paddling-downsidewalks rain. Neil had planned to spend the weekend reorganizing his wardrobe and maybe—if things got wild—cleaning out his email inbox.
Zara had other ideas.
She stood in the middle of the living room wearing leggings, a headband, and a very serious expression. In her hands, she held a cardboard sign that read in glittery letters: Flatmate Olympics – Let the Games Begin!
Neil blinked up from the couch. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Neil, it’s raining. We’re trapped. We’ve watched everything on Netflix twice. The only logical step is to establish an elaborate system of physical and mental competitions to determine who is the ultimate flatmate.”
He groaned. “Can’t we just arm wrestle and call it a day?”
Zara tossed him a bandana. “Put this on. You’re Team Beige.”
Neil inspected the cloth. “Is this made from an old pillowcase?”
“We recycle here, Neil.”
She had drawn up a list on a whiteboard she’d stolen from her freelance job. Events included:
Speed Dishwashing
Blanket Burrito Wrapping
Passive-Aggressive Note Writing
Who Can Pretend to Be on a Work Call the Longest
Guess That Song with Only One Note
Spicy Ramen Endurance
Neil sighed. “This is going to end in violence.”
“That’s the spirit!”
Event 1: Speed Dishwashing
The kitchen sink had been weaponized with three days’ worth of mugs, plates, and one suspicious blender lid. Zara hit the stopwatch.
Neil started strong. He had strategy: rinse, soap, scrub, rinse, rack. Zara, meanwhile, danced between stations like she was on Top Chef, narrating in an exaggerated British accent.
“In goes the dish—will it make it to the drying rack? That’s a strong scrub, folks!”
Neil won by one fork.
Zara declared it a tie.
Event 2: Blanket Burrito Wrapping
Each contestant was given a large blanket and a sofa. The goal: wrap yourself like a burrito in under 30 seconds. Zara, a seasoned napper, demolished Neil with her triple-roll-and-tuck technique.
Neil, wrapped like a tragic sushi roll, wheezed, “I’m claustrophobic.”
“You’re dramatic.”
Zara was awarded a gold sticker.
Event 3: Passive-Aggressive Note Writing
Both sat in silence, scribbling on post-its. After five minutes, they swapped.
Zara’s note read: “I’m not saying you’re the reason the fridge smells, but maybe check your emotional baggage and also that Tupperware.”
Neil’s note said: “Interesting how some people think countertops clean themselves. Fascinating evolutionary theory.”
They both nodded in respect.
“Truly toxic,” Neil said.
“I feel seen,” Zara replied.
Declaring it a draw, they moved on.
Event 4: Who Can Pretend to Be on a Work Call the Longest
They sat with phones to their ears.
“Yeah, yeah, the cloud migration timeline is still pending review,” Neil said, with the cold efficiency of someone who had actually said those words before.
Zara responded, “Well, Karen, I don’t feel like my chakra aligns with the quarterly projections.”
Twenty-two minutes later, Neil hung up first.
“I ran out of jargon.”
“I could’ve gone for another hour,” Zara boasted.
He eyed her. “Do you even have a job right now?”
“Freelance. I’m always on-call emotionally.”
Event 5: Guess That Song With One Note
Zara hummed one note. “Name that tune.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Neil guessed Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It was Bohemian Rhapsody.
She guessed Highway to Hell. It was Baby Shark.
Neither of them scored.
They agreed to burn that round from the records.
Final Event: Spicy Ramen Endurance
Two bowls. One packet labeled WARNING: FOR MASOCHISTS ONLY.
Neil stared at it. “You’re kidding.”
“I bought it online. The guy in the video cried.”
They sat across from each other like gunslingers at a chili showdown.
Zara took the first bite and immediately hiccupped. “Oh, it’s angry.”
Neil took a bite. He died. Came back. Died again.
Tears streamed down their faces. Zara’s eyeliner smudged into abstract art. Neil’s glasses fogged up. They refused to stop.
Ten minutes later, both collapsed on the floor, groaning, ice cubes in their mouths.
Neil croaked, “Was… this… necessary?”
Zara, still crying, replied, “Absolutely.”
After the events concluded, they lay on the carpet surrounded by empty ramen bowls, used post-its, tangled blankets, and a growing sense that maybe the Olympics should be a monthly thing.
“We’re ridiculous,” Neil said.
“We’re elite athletes,” Zara replied.
“You cheated during the dishwashing.”
“You used pre-written notes.”
They high-fived. Later, as they tallied up imaginary scores (Zara claimed victory by “spiritual alignment”), Neil stood up and looked around.
“This flat is a disaster.”
“It’s a reflection of our beautiful chaos,” Zara said.
“Let’s clean tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Tomor
row’s event: synchronized vacuuming.”
Neil groaned. “I already miss the cockroach.”
Goodbye, But Only for Now
Neil Patel stood in the hallway, staring at a half-packed suitcase that somehow looked like it was judging him.
Zara Shah was moving out.
She had gotten the call a week ago: a full-time offer from a creative agency in Manchester, complete with a swanky apartment, health insurance, and something called a “wellness stipend.” Neil had said congratulations with a smile that felt like a sock full of emotional rocks.
Now the flat was a mess of open boxes, sticky notes with sad jokes, and the quiet kind of tension that fills a room before a really long goodbye.
Zara emerged from her room holding two mugs.
“I found these in my sock drawer,” she said. “I don’t know how or why.”
Neil took one. “You’ve stored spoons in your plant pots. Nothing surprises me anymore.”
She sat cross-legged on the floor. “You’ve labeled every spice jar and color-coded the pantry. And yet, you still microwave eggs.”
“Some battles are not meant to be won,” he replied.
They sipped quietly. Outside, the rain tapped at the window like a polite ghost. Zara fiddled with the corner of a moving box.
“So,” she said. “This is happening.”
“Looks like it.”
“You’re not going to cry, are you?”
“No. I’m British.”
“You’re not British.”
“I’ve absorbed the culture.”
Zara chuckled, then turned serious. “This flat was a mess when I moved in.”
“It still is.”
“Yeah, but now it’s a lovable mess. Like a dog with abandonment issues.”
Neil looked around. There were bits of her everywhere—her ridiculous art prints taped to the walls, her herbs in jam jars, her glitter explosion from the time she tried to make birthday cards and forgot to clean up.
“Do you remember when you burned the sourdough and blamed it on ‘cosmic interference’?” he asked.
“Do you remember when you bought a toaster that looked like a parking meter?”
They both laughed.
Then, silence again.
“I thought this would be temporary,” Zara said. “A few months of shared rent and mildly tolerable company.”
“I thought you were going to burn the place down.”
“I still might. One last hurrah.”
He looked at her. “I’ll miss the chaos.”
She smiled, soft and small. “I’ll miss the order.”
There it was—their entire story in two lines. Order and chaos. Logic and jazz. Two people who should’ve clashed, but somehow clicked.
She stood and opened a box labeled Memories & Mild Regrets. Inside was a kazoo, the Flatmate Olympics scoreboard, and a dead succulent named Derek.
Neil frowned. “Why is Derek here?”
“He’s traveling with me. Spiritually.”
“I think he died of neglect.”
“Or maybe love.”
“Definitely neglect.”
They packed in near silence for the next hour. Neil folded Zara’s scarves with military precision. Zara threw his labeled Tupperware lids into the wrong boxes just to irritate him. It was, somehow, perfect.
Finally, the Uber arrived.
Zara zipped her suitcase, stood by the door, and looked at the flat like it was a friend she was leaving behind.
“Do I look like someone starting a new chapter?” she asked.
“You look like someone who overpacked socks.”
“I need options, Neil.”
He walked her to the door. It felt heavier than usual.
“Don’t let Rohan’s descendants take over,” she said.
“I’ve already declared martial law.”
“And don’t forget to defrost the fridge.”
“You act like I’m the messy one.”
“You are the messy one emotionally.”
He smiled. “Touché.”
There was a pause. A long one.
Then she stepped forward and hugged him. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just warmth and something that felt like it had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Goodbye, Flatmate,” she whispered.
“Goodbye, Chaos.”
She left.
The door clicked shut.
And suddenly, the flat was quiet in a way it had never been before. Not just silent—empty.
Neil wandered to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. There was a post-it note stuck to the orange juice:
“This expired juice is a metaphor. Also, get new oat milk. – Z”
He sat on the couch. Looked around. It was the same flat—but the heart of it had moved three hundred miles north.
He didn’t cry. But he did play Bohemian Rhapsody on her kazoo, badly, because somehow, that made the silence feel a little more like home.
Six months later.
Neil received a parcel.
Inside was a single postcard. On the front: a hand-drawn cartoon of a cockroach wearing a crown, standing next to a burning toaster.
On the back:
“Manchester’s alright. But they don’t have Flatmate Olympics. Or you. Visit soon. Bring your boring playlist. Love, Z.”
He smiled. Stuck the card on the fridge. Took a photo. Texted her:
“Packing my socks.”
End
