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My name is Grace. I'm 31. I live in Manchester, Chorlton area. I rent a room. Not a flat — a room. In a house with three strangers. I work on the till at Tesco Express. Corner shop. Open from 6am till 11pm. I do evening shifts. From 2 to 10. Sometimes till 11 if someone doesn't turn up. £11.44 an hour. After tax — about £1,500 a month. Sounds okay? It's not. Here's the expenses. Room rent: £550 (includes bills but no internet) Council tax: £90 (split with housemates but they never pay on time) Internet + phone: £55 Bus to work and back: £65 (night fares are more expensive) Food: £250 (I barely eat meat because it's too expensive) Subscriptions: £15 (Netflix — only entertainment, and even that I share with a friend) Clothes and shoes: £20 (charity shops, everything) Medication: £10 (headache and allergy tablets) Unexpected: £30 Left: £415. Feels like £415 is money. It's not. Because £415 is what covers everything I forgot. And everything that will happen tomorrow. And tomorrow always happens. I've been living alone for three years. Since I broke up with Dan. He was normal. Didn't hit me. Didn't shout. Just stopped noticing me. I became like a fridge to him — it's there, but you don't see it. I left myself. Since then — I'm alone. In the evening I come home at 10:30. House is old. Doors creak. Housemates — guys who don't care. They blast music at 2am. I don't complain — I'm scared they'll hate me. And I've got nowhere else to go. I go into my room. 9 square metres. Bed, wardrobe, desk. On the desk — a 2017 laptop that takes five minutes to load. I sit on the bed. Take off my Tesco uniform — blue jacket, black trousers stretched at the knees. Put them on the chair. Tomorrow same again. Boil the kettle. Drink tea without sugar. Stare at the wall. And think. I think about being 31. No savings. If the laptop breaks — I can't replace it. If I get ill and miss three days — I can't pay rent. If a housemate complains I walk too loud — landlord will just replace
