Some odd disconnect, some disparity that takes me to an extreme where I've read the situation wrong.

"The coat hanger just fell down," he says. No one tried to rehang it despite the massive home improvement projects they've embarked on since I left. My coats are piled on top of boxes that they've packed for me, full of my kitchen supplies and food that I still need to use.

"It was all Eva, take it up with her," he says, hiding behind the only one in the apartment with half a spine. "Use or take whatever you want. I'm sorry this isn't going smoothly for you."

Boxes piled in front of my door, like an entrance I'm not going to use.

"You're not even paying rent," he says, when I start to get shitty. Because it's fine to throw the incentive he offered me to leave my home in my face, once I point out that they're treating me like a squatter.

And of course, there exists the distinct possibility that everything that's happening is completely normal, that I've misinterpreted it and I'm far too self-righteous, that I should in all honesty go fuck myself. The coat hanger really did fall, my bread molded. It makes no sense to make space for you when you're leaving in two weeks, you aren't paying rent, you don't have any rights here. Get the fuck out.