Bad dreams in the night
They told me I was going to lose the fight
Leave behind my Wuthering, Wuthering
Wuthering Heights.

Kate Bush

Emotional Rent

There is something mildly disturbing about discovering, in a dream, that you have been renting an apartment you completely forgot existed, especially when the realisation does not come with panic, but with a quiet, almost administrative confusion about how long this arrangement has been going on without your awareness.

In the dream, everything is still there.

Heathcliff, it’s me, I’m Cathy! I’ve come home now.

Clothes, objects, small traces of a version of me that clearly lived there at some point and then, without much ceremony, left, apparently assuming that departure automatically meant closure, which, as it turns out, is not how rental agreements—or anything else—actually work.

The most unsettling part is not the apartment.

It is the payment.

Because somewhere, quietly and consistently, I am still paying for something I no longer live in, and the only real question is not why it exists, but why it is still mine.

And then, just as suddenly, another thought appears, far less concerned and significantly more practical.

There is nothing left there.

No value.

No reason to maintain it.

If anything, it feels like an administrative error that has gone on for far too long.

At which point I find myself surprisingly calm about the consequences, because if the landlord decides to take action, to send notices, to escalate the situation in whatever formal way these things are handled, I realise I don’t particularly mind.

Let him.

There is nothing left in that apartment worth protecting.

And if I am finally convicted of neglecting something I no longer live in, then that feels less like a problem and more like a conclusion.

Terms I Agreed To Without Reading

I know exactly what that apartment is.

Or rather, who.

The life before.

Not something that ended properly, more something that… concluded itself, with a level of distance that required very little effort and even less accountability, which, in hindsight, feels entirely on brand.

There was no confrontation, no closing conversation, just a quiet push in my direction, as if I had been encouraged to handle the administrative side of my own departure.

Which I did.

Eventually.

Just not completely.

Because while I moved out in every visible way, something in the contract remained active, not loudly or dramatically, just enough to keep the account open.

I accepted things without really reviewing them, adapted without negotiating, and agreed to terms I hadn’t properly read, staying long enough to forget what I had originally agreed to in the first place.

I didn’t write during that time, or rather, I did, but I removed the evidence, because after a while everything started to feel… reasonable, which, looking back, was probably the most unreasonable part of it.

It became less about living and more about maintenance, keeping things functional, presentable, just enough so nothing looked like it needed to end.

I started writing later, not out of inspiration, but out of suspicion, because at some point it became clear that staying had required more explanation than leaving ever did.

The landlord eventually became aware of the documentation, and there was disappointment, along with suggestions that I should perhaps remove certain records, an implication that this was not how one behaves.

Which I found interesting, mostly because the apartment had never been intended for him to revisit in the first place.

I’m coming back love, cruel Heathcliff
My one dream, my only master.

It was meant for the next tenant.

A small note on the condition of the property, a reminder that the rent, while not always visible, is very real.

The contract was never really mutual.

But it was active.

And apparently, that’s enough.

Still Charging, Apparently

It has been four years.

Four years of not living there, not visiting, not thinking about the apartment in any practical sense.

And yet, from time to time, it reappears.

It just shows up again, like something that keeps renewing itself without asking.

In the dream, I’m back there.

The apartment is in Germany.

Which is interesting, because it never was.

Everything is still there.

Not in a nostalgic way.

In an irritating way.

Clothes I don’t wear, things I don’t need, a whole setup that feels like it belongs to someone who tolerated far more than she should have and somehow still paid for it.

And that’s the part that gets me.

Why the fuck am I still paying for this?

Because that’s exactly what it feels like—not a memory, not something meaningful, just an ongoing charge for something that was never worth the price in the first place.

Same character.

Same performance.

Still nothing special.

And at some point it crosses my mind that maybe this isn’t even about me anymore, maybe I’m just being pulled back into some unfinished pattern that was never mine to begin with, which would explain a lot, because I’m not the one with mother issues here, I’m just the one still paying for the subscription.

I don’t have mother issues.

I own the place.

I’m the MILF.

Motherfucker.

Absolutely Fabulous

Recently, a friend came to visit.

It was Easter.

Jesus dies.
Jesus rises.
Pagans go around whipping each other with branches.

All of this happening in a country that has been voted the happiest in the world for the ninth time.

We went to a concert.

Younghearted.

This was after watching a version of Wuthering Heights full of unnecessary bubbles of sparkling.

By the time we got to the concert, we were already suspicious of anything that presented love as something dramatic and consuming.

We had already walked our own version of via dolorosa, just with better outfits, water confidently labelled as wine, and the kind of faith that somewhere, like Patsy Stone’s fridge, there would always be another bottle waiting.

And luckily, unlike Jesus, there is no written record.
No bible.
No evidence that we were ever that Younghearted.

Every woman, at some point, wants a Heathcliff — the kind that belongs more in a song than in real life.

So instead of relating, we started laughing.

We laughed like hyenas.

We are Absolutely Fabulous — Patsy Stone and Edina Monsoon, the more experienced version of Younghearted, fully aware that bad decisions are not mistakes, just choices we stand behind with smokes, sparkling, and the occasional dream of younger men.

The next day, during a hangover brunch, we discussed our future.

Which, at this point, feels less like a plan and more like a backup system.

Somewhere between the coffee and whatever was left of our dignity, we realised we might have reached a new phase in life where interest in men is not gone, just… paused.

Not lesbians.

Just highly selective.

It didn’t feel dramatic.

More like a quiet, well-earned upgrade.

Menopause.

Men-on-pause.

If we both end up single, we agreed, we’ll just move back in together.

Full circle.

Efficient.

No surprises.

From there, the plan improved.

We’ll go to the land of blood diamonds, find a Bolt driver, name him Heathcliff, and lean fully into it, because at this point subtlety feels unnecessary and if we’re going to make questionable decisions, we might as well commit properly and go looking for some Patsy and Edina level action. If needed, at the end, I can administer the euthanasia — though laughter will be the primary cause of death.

Cancellation Policy

Ooh, let me have it
Let me grab your soul away
Ooh, let me have it
Let me grab your soul away
You know it’s me, Cathy.

Nothing is unclear anymore.

I moved out.

The rest just didn’t end properly.

Some things don’t end just because you stop showing up.

They continue quietly.

Like a charge.

Until you cancel it.

And now:

Emotional rent cancelled.
Men-on-pause activated.

I laugh like a hyena, because apparently this is my new subscription to be cancelled one day.

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