Winning The Lottery

When I lived in a flatshare in my late 20s with a 24-year-old, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. Not the kind where money rains from the ceiling, but the kind where your new flatmate is good-looking, charming, and seems to collect hot friends like some people collect novelty mugs.

I didn’t fancy him, mind you — not my type. But he had taste. His mates were walking, talking Calvin Klein ads. I was living in a romcom, and I was main charactering all over the place.

Cue one fateful Thursday night — the kind where you go for a cheeky one after work and next thing you know, it’s 2am and you’re stumbling home with two random guys you barely remember meeting, let alone inviting back.

We get to the flat. I check my bag. No keys. Brilliant.

Now, most people would panic. I just laughed, probably slurred something about the universe having a plan, and bumped into my crazy neighbour. He was a bit loopy, but handed us a duvet and wished us luck. So, like drunk little orphans, we cocooned ourselves in front of the door and passed out.

Enter: my flatmate and his hot friend — tall, blonde, jaw carved by angels. Suddenly, my drunken mind short-circuited. I looked at the two poor blokes I’d dragged home and thought, what have I done?

We made it inside. Somehow the two randoms ended up staying over (don’t ask), one even landing in my bed. Romance, eh? Woke up and found out he was married. As if I needed a bigger plot twist.

But the real story begins that morning. The hot friend hadn’t left. My flatmate popped out, and it was just me and this golden-haired Adonis... alone. We started kissing on the couch — you know, as you do with someone whose name you still might not know. Things heated up, but I wasn’t ready to go all in.

He... well, let’s just say he took matters into his own hands. Literally. Finished on my chest. It was like a budget version of a porn scene directed by a drunk squirrel. Still, very memorable.

Fast forward a few weeks and we’re throwing a house party. In walks yet another hot friend of my flatmate (seriously, was this guy running some sort of modelling agency?). This one was it. Kind, softly spoken, that sparkle-in-his-eye thing that makes you think, “Okay, universe, I get it. Thank you.”

We ended up in the bedroom grabbing something (not a euphemism — yet), locked eyes, and kissed like we were in a John Hughes movie. It was magic. The night went on, everyone partied, and he ended up in my bed.

Woke up in the morning absolutely buzzing, convinced I’d just lived my own romcom pilot. In a burst of heartfelt idiocy, I turned to him and said:

“I feel like I’ve won the lottery.”

Cringe so hard I still have jaw tension.

He smiled awkwardly. And that, dear reader, was the beginning of the end.

Apparently, word had already got round about me and Mr. Chest Situation. Between that and my overly sentimental declaration, he was out. I watched him, week after week, start dating someone else — right under my nose — while I sat there like a rejected Love Island contestant with a hangover and a bruised ego.

The moral of the story? Never trust a duvet from a neighbour. Also, maybe let things simmer before declaring someone your personal jackpot. And if your flatmate has hot friends, pace yourself. There may be more than one lottery ticket in the pile.