In Memory of: The Devil Signing Your Lease
Passed quietly while you were busy asking about love.
Beloved tenant of the seventh-floor walk-up with the radiator that coughs like a dying accordion. Died in the small hours of a Tuesday, somewhere between the third glass of wine and the text you didn’t send. The cause of death was a kind of quiet suffocation—the kind that happens when you finally stop believing you deserve the haunted apartment, the bad habit, the familiar ache. The Devil signed the lease, yes, but you’d already moved out years ago. You just forgot to tell anyone.
Survived by: The cat you adopted on a whim and now can’t look in the eye. The half-finished novel in the drawer. The friend who still says “you seem fine” with the careful optimism of someone watching a bridge sway. The playlist titled “Songs to Cry in the Shower To” (currently at 47 tracks). The unopened box of emergency cigarettes in the freezer. The ex who still texts on holidays, as if the lease between you hasn’t expired. The habit of checking your phone for a message you already know isn’t there. The habit of saying “I’m fine” when you mean “I’m drowning but the rent is due.” The habit of mistaking repetition for comfort.
Predeceased by: The version of you that believed in fresh starts. The belief that if you just tried harder, you could fix it. The belief that love was a rescue mission. The belief that the Devil only shows up in fire and brimstone, not in the soft, warm blanket of a familiar bad decision. The thrill of the first hit—whether it was a drink, a text, a late-night call, a credit card swipe, or a promise you couldn’t keep. The innocence of thinking you were the exception, not the pattern. The hope that the radiator would be fixed next week. The hope that you would be fixed next week.
A brief service: They said the Devil is in the details. But the Devil, in this case, was in the fine print. The lease you signed was for a one-bedroom, but you ended up with a studio of self-doubt and a closet full of ghosts. The security deposit was your dignity, non-refundable. The monthly rent was your time, paid in anxious hours. The late fees were your sleep. The renewal clause was automatic, until one day you realized you weren’t renewing anything—you were just staying.
Everyone asks about love. “Are you seeing anyone?” “Did you find the one?” “How’s your heart?” They never ask about the other contracts. The lease you signed with the job that drains you, paid in vacation days you never use. The lease with the friendship that feels like charity, paid in smiles. The lease with the self-destructive thought that has become a roommate you can’t evict. The lease with the past, paid in nostalgia that tastes like stale coffee.
The Devil didn’t come for your soul. He came for your attention. He offered you a quiet place where the pain was predictable, where the bad habits were as familiar as the smell of the downstairs neighbor’s cooking. He offered you a lease that said: You can stay here forever, as long as you agree not to leave. And you signed it, because the alternative—the unknown, the open market, the terrifying possibility of a fresh, clean apartment with a functional radiator and a view of the sky—was too much to bear.
But here is the truth the obituary does not usually say: The lease is void. The Devil cannot enforce a contract signed by someone who was never fully present. You were busy asking about love, yes. But you were also busy surviving. You were busy trying to be good enough. You were busy holding the suitcase and crying on a Tuesday. The Devil may have thought he had you, but he didn’t account for the fact that you were never really there. You were elsewhere—already packing, already dreaming of a place where the heat works and the door closes without a fight.
In lieu of flowers: Consider not renewing. Consider the quiet, terrifying freedom of an empty studio with a single chair and a window that opens all the way. Consider that the Devil is a terrible landlord, but he’s also a terrible evictor. He only stays if you let him.
Final remark: The lease was signed in ink, but the ink was water-soluble, and you have been crying for years. The paper is illegible now. The Devil is gone, looking for a tenant who still believes in the fine print.
Don’t ask about love. Ask about the other contracts. Then let them expire.