My nervous system, which had just started—juststarted—to settle, has completely unraveled again.
I jump at everything. Every sound. Every shift. Every unexpected movement.
I check under the bed. In the closet. Behind the door—every time, like something might be waiting for me. Like something might have changed while I was gone.
Like I’m not safe unless I prove it to myself over and over again.
And then there are the cameras. Strategically placed. Living room. Porch. Little black lenses catching light at angles I don’t trust. I don’t know where all of them are—that’s the worst part.
Every time I move through the house, I feel watched. Tracked. Studied.
“What’s the problem?” Adrian had said when I brought it up—when I told him how betrayed I felt by doing my psychology intake session in front of a hidden camera—with audio. And when I explained how it impacted me, he just shook his head and scoffed.
Which is his reaction to literally every boundary I try to set—every concern Itry to raise.
As usual, I just dropped it. Because I’m existing in a space that isn’t mine, performing a version of myself I don’t recognize.
And now—now his roommate wants me to pay rent. Not because he needs it. Because he wants it. Because he’s decided I should contribute to something I never agreed to be part of.
“Iwould never charge you,” Adrian says, like he’s generous. Like he’s kind. Like he’s doing me a favor I should be grateful for. “I’d prefer you use your money to focus on healing.”
Healing. Of course.
I almost laugh.
It catches in my throat instead.
I don’t want to be here.
“But he wasn’t expecting you to stay this long,” he continues, calm, measured, reasonable in a way that makes me feel irrational for even reacting. “He thought it would just be a few days. Now that it’s… extended, he’d like you to contribute.”
Like this is normal. Like this makes sense. Like I’m the one making it complicated.
As if he couldn’t have sorted this before I arrived, rather than springing it on both of us that neither had any idea what the arrangement was. Telling each of us separate versions, what we each wanted to hear, setting us up for an inevitable conflict and then stepping away quietly with a subtle smile.
I swallow hard. My chest tightens. I want to scream.
The thought of paying to stay in this hellhole—of funding the noise, the chaos, the constant, suffocating pressure—makes my stomach churn. Because I've seen what goes on here on weekends. That's what he wants to spend my rent on—cocaine and god knows what else to keep his party going.
Everything feels louder now. Sharper. The walls feel thinner. The air heavier. Even my thoughts feel too big for my head, bouncing around with nowhere to go, no space to land.
What was supposed to be a sanctuary has twisted into something else entirely. Something claustrophobic that presses in from all sides. Something I can’t breathe inside.
A slow mirror of exactly what I came here to escape.
I didn’t come here to freeload. And I definitely didn’t come here to live like this.
This was supposed to be temporary.
A place to land. To catch my breath and leave.
But somewhere along the way, that shifted.
Or maybe it was always like this, and I just didn’t see it. Now it feels like they’ve decided I belong here. Not as an equal. Not as someone passing through. As something… lesser.
A presence to work around. A second-class version of a person occupying space that isn’t really hers.
Timing my meals so I don’t inconvenience them. Avoiding the kitchen when they’re in it. Not touching certain things. Not taking up too much room. Not making too much noise. Not being too much.