I lived in London twice. The first time not for long, and not quite alone in the way people imagine, but long enough to learn a few hard truths. At one point I had a bedsit, one small room in a house that had given up caring for itself. The walls were grimy, the carpets worn thin, and the air seemed to carry decades of other people’s lives, none of them kind. Even the landlord, with his greasy hair and hollow smile, looked like he had absorbed the building’s neglect.

It cost me fifty pounds for the week. That was the last of my money. After a day spent worrying about where I would sleep, the offer of a room, any room, seemed like salvation. Exhaustion is a powerful persuader, and fear of another night on the street pushed me through that doorway. It was the first time I had been homeless. It would not be the last.

He showed me inside, lifting his T-shirt as he scratched at his side, revealing a narrow waist and thin arms covered in coarse, dark hair. His teeth were as neglected as the room he let. The smell hit me immediately, stale sweat, cigarettes, and something older beneath it all, a scent of worn-out lives trapped in the walls. A threadbare blanket covered sheets I could not bring myself to look at too closely. He muttered something about beggars not being choosers and how fortunate I was to find anything in London at such a price. In truth, I was grateful, but my nose still crinkled despite my best efforts.

When he left, I pushed the door closed behind him. Only then did I realise there was no lock. One glance at the flimsy frame and the stained bed was enough. Instinct took over. I leaned my shoulder hard against the dresser and dragged it across the floor until it blocked the doorway. It wobbled, but it was something. Then I lay down, fully clothed, my bag under my head, and waited for sleep to come.

It arrived eventually, somewhere between hunger and fear. But the house did not sleep. Laughter drifted through the thin walls, a woman’s giggle, too bright for a place like that. Then the rhythmic banging of a headboard against the wall beside me, men shouting in the corridor, doors slamming again and again as footsteps came and went. It felt as though the entire building breathed in chaos.

A sharp knock at my door jolted me awake. A man’s voice asked if I was “ready for business”. My heart pounded so loudly it felt as though he must surely hear it. I stayed perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, until he moved on and knocked at the next door. The same woman laughed softly and pulled him into her room. A moment later, the thudding began again.

That was the moment I knew I could not stay. Fear can make decisions before the mind catches up. I grabbed my bag, pushed the dresser aside with shaking arms, and slipped out. Down the stairs, past the peeling wallpaper and the smell of stale smoke, out into the cold London night. I did not know where I was going, only that anywhere was better than that room.

I was young, frightened, and alone. But I survived. Memories like this stay with you, not for the darkness of the moment, but for the strength you discover afterwards, the quiet determination that becomes part of who you are. That night taught me that even when the world feels unsafe and unfamiliar, there is always a way forward, even if it begins simply by running.

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