**Tuesday, 15th March**
*”Coffee first, then you.”*
“Ellie, listen to this—I’ve had a stroke of genius!” Jack burst into the kitchen like a man possessed. “A startup. A game-changer. Totally unique! A delivery platform for everything—from socks to kebabs!”
“That already exists,” Ellie said drily, stirring her porridge.
“But ours is different!” He pointed dramatically at the ceiling. “AI-powered smart delivery! Get this—the algorithm predicts what you want before you even order!”
“So… it reads minds?”
“Exactly! It’s revolutionary.”
“And where do you plan to run this empire?”
“Well… here. For now. Bootstrapping phase. Call it a kitchen coworking space.”
“Jack. I *also* have a ‘coworking space.’ It’s called a *job*. And I’ve got a deadline.”
“Love, we won’t get in each other’s way. I’ve already called the lads—they’re onboard. It’ll be brilliant!”
The “lads” turned out to be four people.
At 9 AM the next morning, Ellie stepped into the kitchen and froze.
Three blokes and a girl in a hoodie that read *”Freelancer—what’s your superpower?”* were hunched over laptops. The room reeked of overbrewed coffee. The fridge was plastered with a chart titled *”Hypothesis Growth: From Pipe Dream to Reality.”*
“Morning!” one of the bearded lot chirped.
“I *live* here,” Ellie replied.
“Brilliant! So do we. Well, almost,” Jack grinned. “Meet Dave, Tim, Lucy, and Harry. The dream team!”
“How long’s this going to last?”
“Till we take off.”
“And if you don’t?”
“No *if*. Only *when*.”
Ellie reached for the coffee—only to find matcha in the machine. The kettle had a bath bomb floating in it (orange-scented, with notes of existential dread). The milk was gone. In its place: a tin of coconut cream.
She retreated to the bedroom and shut the door.
“Workday starts now,” she muttered. “In hell.”
—
The next day, Ellie opened her laptop and slipped on headphones. A knock came within minutes.
“Ellie, have you seen my Mac charger?”
“No.”
“Can you type a bit quieter? We’re brainstorming.”
“It’s a keyboard. It’s designed for typing.”
“We’re workshopping how to monetise predictive pancake delivery.”
“*Before* breakfast? What’s this, then?”
“Pre-launch strategising!”
By week’s end, Ellie’s flat had morphed into a coworking hub—with her as the unwelcome guest.
Lucy air-dried her knickers in the lounge. Dave reconfigured the Wi-Fi without asking. Harry held Zoom calls at the kitchen table. And Jack? Thrilled.
“We’re *this close* to a breakthrough! Just need a few case studies and a bit of marketing!”
“And personal space. A smidge. A crumb,” Ellie said, pouring coffee from *her* mug—now flecked with chia seeds.
“You’re just not used to creative energy!”
“I’m used to *quiet*. And my home being *mine*. Not a… makeshift office with peppermint air freshener and one charger between five.”
When Lucy Zoomed from the shower on Friday (“WHO TOOK MY SHAMPOO?” echoing mid-call), Ellie snapped.
First—subtle sabotage. She “accidentally” unplugged the router. Five minutes later:
“Ellie, your Wi-Fi working?”
“Must be an outage.”
“*Now*? We’ve got investors pitching!”
“Fate’s funny like that.”
Next day, she changed the Wi-Fi password. The network name: *”Silence_And_Sanity.”* Jack panicked.
“Who changed it? This is mutiny!”
“Or a sign.”
“Ellie, we had an investor call! They couldn’t join!”
“Maybe because you’re in a *living room*, not an office?”
“This is a *dream home*, not a workspace!”
“Then why do I feel like a tenant?”
Monday brought disaster—the investor backed out. (“Lacked professionalism,” especially when Lucy stormed out mid-call in a towel, shrieking, “WHO USED MY HAIR MASK?”)
Jack slumped onto the bed, barefoot.
“We cocked it up.”
“Oh, you noticed?” Ellie shut her laptop. “I thought you’d moved in permanently.”
“I wanted to build something—”
“You built a dorm. With energy-drink vibes and a cereal-bar diet.”
“Was it a bad plan?”
“It was *our home*. And I vanished in it.”
“Why didn’t you say sooner?”
“Would you have heard?”
Silence.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly. “Maybe we rent an office.”
“*You’ve* been thinking?”
“Properly. With a team—but no ‘brainstorms’ near the toaster.”
“And the kettle?”
“New one. Guarded.”
“Wi-Fi?”
“Scout’s honour.”
A week later, the lounge was a lounge again. Lucy migrated to a coworking space. Dave got a “proper job.” Harry moved to Edinburgh. Tim vanished.
Jack rented a spot in *The Hive* Business Centre and texted Ellie: *”Proper Wi-Fi. No socks on the lampshade.”*
She opened the window. *Quiet.* Coffee in her favourite mug. The kettle no longer smelled of tangerines and despair.
“I’m home,” she said aloud.
Then smiled.
And updated the Wi-Fi password: *”Discuss_It_With_Me_First.”*
—
A week passed.
The drip of the tap was *luxury*—after grinders, brainstorms, shower Zooms, and matcha in the kettle.
Ellie sipped coffee by the window. The dog snored beside her. The router bore a sign: *”Hands Off—Ask First.”* Jack’s doing. He’d sworn off “open-plan sleepovers.”
Mostly.
“Ellie! Hi!” His voice carried from the hall. “Just a quick thing—”
She turned. Jack stood there with some bespectacled lad in a hoodie.
“Meet Anton. Developer. Top bloke. We need to demo something on a big screen. Five minutes. Tops.”
“Whose screen?”
“Yours? The display’s crisp! Office lighting’s shoddy.”
“You’ve got *one* lamp?”
“Start-up life, love. We adapt!”
“You *promised—*”
“Fifteen minutes. Scout’s honour.”
An hour later, Ellie emerged. Anton was at *her* desk. Jack fried eggs. Trainers littered the rug. *White ones.*
“Setting up camp?” she asked.
“Don’t be daft! Just… bad lighting. This is cosier!”
“That’s not *cosy*. It’s my *‘Silent Rage’* candle.”
Jack grinned.
“You’ve always got a punchline.”
“And I’ve *always* got limits.” She pointed at the door. “Time’s up. Exit’s there.”
—
That evening’s “chat”:
“I get it. You’re angry.” Jack sat on the bed’s edge. “But he’s harmless! One hour. We barely made a peep!”
“Notice how you’re justifying it? *Again?*”
“You think I’m moving the office back?”
“Worse. You’re *sneaking* it in. One person. One laptop. One *‘quick thing.’*”
“It’s not the same!”
“No—it’s sneakier. Last time, you were upfront. Now it’s creeping in. Like malware.”
“Malware?!”
“Yes. And soon—strangers at *my* table. *Their* ideas in *my* space. *Their* shoes in *my* bath.”
Jack went quiet.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know. But you *do* it. You’re so scared of losing the idea, you’re losing *me*.”
Next morning, Ellie left for a coworking space. No drama. Just gone.
She paid a fortune for a plastic-scented hub across town. But it had no Jack. No “lads.”
He got the hint with her note:
*”Wi-Fi’s on. Kettle’s in the cupboard. I’m off-grid.”*
Three days later, he arrived with flowers and puppy-dog eyes.
“I get it now,” he said as she removed her headphones. “I thought the idea was everything. That if I lost it, I’d have nothing left. I was wrong.”
“What *is* everything?”
“Space. *Our* space. And your trust. No start-up survives without it.”
“Poetic. Yours or Anton’s?”
“IThey never did guess the Wi-Fi password, but the laughter that followed made the chaos almost worth it.
