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🚨💔 My name's Jessica. I'm 32. I live in Manchester, in Wythenshawe, in a rented flat. With my partner Tom. We've been together four years. He's a decent enough bloke. But I'd be lying if I said I was a hundred percent sure about our future. I work on the tills at ASDA. Shifts from 7am till 3pm. Sometimes 4 if someone calls in sick. I'm on £11.44 an hour — minimum wage. After tax that works out at around £1,450 a month. Tom works too. Between us we get by. But getting by isn't the same as actually living. It means you look at your account at the end of the month and think: right, not in the red. And that counts as a win. Rent: £1,050 (bills not included) Gas and electric: £130 Metrolink and bus: £75 Food shop: £220 (I buy whatever's reduced) Personal stuff: £60 Unexpected costs: £30 That leaves me somewhere around £150-180. And that's my money. Not ours. Mine. And it's never quite enough to feel independent. Tom pays his share. I can't complain about that. But there's a difference between living with someone because you want to — and living with someone because you can't make the numbers work without them. I'm not sure which one I'm doing anymore. I'm up at 5:50. Shower. Breakfast. Bus to the tram, tram into town. Eight hours on the tills. "Hiya." Scan. Smile. "Ta-ra." Again. Again. Again. Then the tram and bus back. Tea. Sofa. Sleep. On the tram I never open my banking app. Even when I'm desperate to check. I'm too dead embarrassed — I don't want anyone seeing the number on my screen. So I just look out the window instead. At home, when Tom's gone to sleep, I sit in the kitchen. No telly. Just sitting. Thinking about how I'm 32. No savings of my own. If I lost my shifts or got sick for a week — I'd have nothing to fall back on. Nothing that's just mine. No cushion. No backup. It's not a loud kind of fear. Not panic. It's more like... sticky. Sits in your stomach. Wakes you up at 4am to check your balance. Last month they cut my hours. Didn't le
