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My name is Charlotte Hayes. I’m 32. I live in Mаnchester, Chorlton area. I rent a room — not a flat, just a room in a house with three strangers. I work on the till at Tesco Express. It’s a 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 nоt. Here are 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), clothes аnd shoes £20 (charity shops, everything), medication £10, unexpected £30. Left: £415. Feels like money. It’s not. £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 didn’t hit me, didn’t shout — he 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. The house is old, doors creak. Housemates don’t care, 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, and 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 the same. Boil the kettle, drink tea without sugar, stare at the wall. And think. I think about being 31 with 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 — the landlord will just replace me. I’m scared. Not loud fear, not panic — more like something sticky, sitting in y
