The landlord’s inspection is looming, and every day leading up to it feels like I’m walking on eggshells.
I find myself glancing at the sink more often than I’d like to admit.
It’s as if I’m expecting it to speak, to spill secrets I can’t afford to hear.
The kitchen’s quiet hum feels louder, more insistent.
Each drip echoes in my mind, a constant reminder of the impending conversation.
The plumber’s detached demeanor plays on repeat.
I replay our last conversation, searching for clues in his tone.
Did he know more than he let on?
I find myself resenting his calm assurance, his authority over something so vital to my daily life.
Yet, there’s a part of me that clings to his expertise, hoping he’ll offer a solution next time.
