Cleaning Layla apartment

The apartment was a battlefield. 

I stood in the middle of my living room, arms crossed, surveying the chaos that surrounded me. Clothes were draped over every available surface, from the back of the couch to the lampshade, as if they'd been flung there in a desperate bid for freedom.

Empty cups and plates formed precarious towers on the coffee table, threatening to topple at the slightest disturbance.

A mismatched sock clung to the ceiling fan, swaying gently like a flag of surrender.

Books, shoes, and an alarming number of empty chip bags were scattered like debris from some domestic explosion.

The faint smell of something vaguely cheesy lingered in the air a haunting reminder of my poor snack management skills. 

"Okay," Zaya said, her voice calm but tinged with amusement as she tied her hair back into a loose ponytail. Her movements were graceful, like she was preparing for battle instead of housework. "Where do we even start?"