The Spare Key

She still has my key. I still haven't changed the lock.

Her name was Amara. Four months of her staying over, then four months of her basically living here. She had a toothbrush, a drawer, a mug with a chipped handle that I wasn't allowed to wash "wrong."

When she left, she took everything. Everything except the key. I found it on the counter next to a note that said "Thanks for having me." Which is the most polite way anyone has ever destroyed me.

So I did the sensible thing. I called a locksmith.

Booked him for Saturday. Forty-five quid. Cancelled it Friday.

Because here's the thing. If I change the lock, there's no chance. Not even a tiny, pathetic, one-in-a-million chance that she'll turn up drunk at midnight, push the door open, and say, "I was stupid."

I know it won't happen. I'm not delusional. I just like the door being possible.

Tonight, I came home late, tired, and got stuck at the door for a second. My key wouldn't turn. I jiggled it. Cursed. Then the door swung open from inside.

It was my flatmate, Jonah, holding a pizza.

"Your keys are in the bowl," he said. "Why are you using hers?"

I looked down.

I'd been carrying her spare key for weeks.

Mine had been on the counter the whole time.

I'd been unlocking my own door with her.