Rosie Taylor is 24 years old and completely down on her luck. Officially, sheโs Rosemary, but no oneโs called her that since her mum shouted it during a row across a supermarket aisle when she was nine. Everyone knows her as Rosie, the girl from the twelfth floor, the one who always looks like sheโs one missed bus away from falling apart.
She lives in a tiny, run-down council flat on one of Manchesterโs most infamous housing estates. Itโs the kind of place that swallows people whole, where the lifts are more out of order than not, where every wall has a story scratched into it, and where dreaming big is often seen as naive, or worse, arrogant.
Rosie dropped out of school at 16. She didnโt want to, she was clever, good with words, full of spark, but life at home was chaotic, and no one was there to keep her on track. By 18, she was a mother. Her daughter is six now, and the only thing Rosieโs ever truly got right. She shares custody with her ex, Dean, a part-time delivery driver who means well but rarely follows through. Their arrangement is unstable at best, a juggling act of handovers, missed calls, and passive aggressive texts. Sometimes heโs helpful. Sometimes heโs just another thing Rosie has to manage.
She works part-time as a supermarket cashier, pushing through long, underpaid shifts behind a till under the flicker of bad lighting. Sheโs polite to customers when she has to be, deadpan when she doesnโt, and always counting down the hours until she can pick her daughter up from school. Her wages barely stretch far enough to cover rent, electric, and food, and when something unexpected comes up (which it always does), itโs another hole in a sinking ship.
Rosie is exhausted. Sheโs tired of borrowing, tired of apologising, tired of pretending sheโs okay when everything is falling apart. Her phone billโs overdue, her trainers have holes in them, and her flatโs so cold in winter she sometimes sleeps in a coat. Sheโs applied for better jobs, looked at courses, even tried selling bits online but nothing sticks. Not yet.
But Rosie isnโt weak. Sheโs got a thick skin and a sharp tongue, and sheโll stand up for herself even when her voice is shaking. She doesnโt trust easily, doesnโt cry in front of people, and never asks for help unless sheโs absolutely desperate. But when it comes to her daughter, sheโs soft. Sheโll skip meals so her little girl doesnโt have to, lie awake worrying about school trips and packed lunches, and still find a way to smile when her kid runs out of the school gates.
Sheโs stuck now trapped in a cycle that feels impossible to break but deep down, Rosie hasnโt given up. Not really. Thereโs still something in her that wants more. She just doesnโt know how to get there. Yet.
