Days like these

Drip drop

     Sometimes you can't hear it, but i know it's still there. That thing is distinguished by two words: Drip Drop. Those Drips and those Drops were here since before moving day.
     We looked at what we thought was a small apartment inside a grand building on a gorgeous street filled with rich, gorgeous people.
     But we weren't rich.
     Oh no, we weren't close to rich. The rent was affordable and the area was safe and all we wanted to do was get away from the memories.
     We.
     No, more like him. He wanted to get as far away from her as possible. He being Dad and her being Mom.
     So when we came to look at the apartment, we were pleased to find it quite spacious.
     Tall ceilings, wooden floors, built in shelves- enough space to have extra space.
     So we moved.
     We packed all our things from the small cottage in the outskirts of the city, traveled two hours, and arrived to our new home, although I refused to call it that.
     Home was my cottage. Home was my tree house. Home were my friends, my mother, my plants.
      No, this was far from home.
     So the movers arrived with our furniture. I assembled my room and laid in bed.
      So that night, laying in bed, the "Drip Drops" began.
      That instant I knew:
     this was going to be a problem.