I know something’s off when I walk into my apartment. Our apartment. Mine and Drake’s. The air smells stale, like none of the windows have been opened all weekend. The clock’s broken too. The hands are exactly on twelve fifteen. I feel like I’m frozen in time. It’s creepy. I tighten my fingers on the sparkly yellow suitcase rattling behind me. The luggage doesn’t exactly scream ‘ambitious pencil pusher crawling up the corporate ladder’, but the long and pretentious title applies to me. Even if no one acknowledges it. It’s seven o’clock on Monday morning and I just returned from my first
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