You sigh as you climb the stairs of your apartment building, the elevator long since forgotten, existing as a mere dust collector and cockroach feeder.

Sighing seems to be your way of smiling these days.

Upon reaching your apartment, you unlock the door, promptly squeezing in and locking up.

Y/N makes their way over to the sink, vomitting as Y/N smells the rotting animal flesh wafting up through the floor boards.

Who knew your landlord murdered cows for sport.

Anyways. You find yourself day-dreaming about Ben Mitchell from EastEnders.

His glasses, his ears.

His father.

Mmmm.

His father

And his oily clothes

Mmmm, You think you could melt.

Mmm.

All this "mmm" is making you hungry.

YOU stride to the cupboard, looking to see what's left.

A cloud of smoke assaults your being as you're faced with an almost empty cupboard.

Soon, you're slaving away over a pot, spoon in hand, when you hear a knock. Small, at first and then increasingly ferocious.

YOU investigate.

You make your way over to the door.

YOU open it

YOU gasp.

It's Phil Mitchell!

"I-I.. what do you want?" You ask uncertainty creating an irregular tremor.

"I want my money," Phil says, calmly. His shiny, ever so sparkly pearly whites gleaming like a ball of hope.

YOU grab a bag of essentials and follow Phil out the door, on your way to your new life in Albert Square.

I wrote this last year and it really doesn't make sense..