To the hallway of my uni flat,
Day forty-something of lockdown, and I suppose it makes sense that I’ve started talking to some stairs and carpet a good fifty miles away. Even weirder, considering I spent the better part of two years slagging you off to whoever would listen-
“This flat’s too small.”
“I swear this carpet never gets clean!”
“The walls are so thin I can honestly hear the landlord breathe—”
Well. You get the picture.
When I last left for the weekend, Hannah (you know her, she’s the only one of us who remembered to hoover you) and I joked about whether or not I’d be coming back the following monday. Words like ‘lockdown’ at the time were just a punchline to a joke that was far less funny than we thought, but again, I suppose you’re used to us making unfunny jokes, laying on your floor and caring less and less the further into the wine we were.
I’m sorry for the scuffed walls and the occasional tears into your carpet. And for treading mud up the stairs at three in the morning. And for covering your walls with the tackiest posters we could find.
We’ve had an unhealthy relationship, you and I. I mean, I talked about leaving you since the week we moved in. Graduation, freedom, a life outside of dreary Middle Hill – all of these ideas seemed shiny and golden and out of our reach. You won’t be surprised by now to hear me admit, very very grudgingly-
I was wrong. And I miss you. Take me back?
I really think we could make it work this time.
Love from your (bestest ever) inhabitant,