Unit 9 Never Slept

We called it The Crater—half duplex, half disaster. No lease, no parents, no rules. Just a busted porch light, a mattress in every room, and a dent in the fridge where someone once headbutted a landlord.

You didn’t knock. You just walked in, stepped over the sleeping bodies, and found a spot. First-timers brought beer. Regulars brought scars. No one brought a future.

Walls were layered with band stickers, phone numbers, confessions in Sharpie. “I exist.” “Don’t tell Maya I cried.” “RIP James.” History written in ink and mildew.

Some of us were runaways. Some just got tired of pretending things were fine at home. Most of us didn’t talk about it. We were too busy making noise—birthday shows in the living room, firecrackers in the bathtub, breakups shouted from the roof.

Cops came twice a week. We scattered like cockroaches, laughing.

Then one morning, we woke to silence. No smell of burnt coffee. No busted speaker hissing static. Just a padlock on the door and a note taped to the window: Condemned.

We stood there awhile. No one cried.

We just lit a smoke, passed it around, and disappeared back into the cracks.

We were never meant to stay.