The kids upstairs are so happy. A smoking hot mum and a great dad. I see them being marched down the stairs outside my apartment, pretending to be soldiers, led by the best fucking dad in the world, their sergeant.

Their apartment is probably wall to wall Ikea. Spotless and comforting to live in. A minimalist dream.

My girlfriend, if I can even call her that, has started bringing back whichever guy she happens to meet that night. I can always hear them, drunk and fucking loudly, in the bedroom, while I try to sleep on the couch.

She knows I don’t care, about any of it. I’m a victim of circumstance, stuck in a shitty life that I have no control over. She stopped pretending that we mean anything, but decided to stick around just to ride out the lease. It’s a cheap apartment, and the house prices are high right now.

I wait until six fifteen, when the kids upstairs are put to bed, and I can hear their laughter. I don’t know what I’d do if they weren’t upstairs, reminding me that life can feel that way.