You've done break-ups before now, so the third or fourth time it calamitously happens (that time you told that Hinge person you'd shagged six times that "actually I think I'm moving to France" was not an actual break-up, sorry, even though the texts they sent you afterwards were very desperate and erratic and sad, like break-up texts are, but the fact you felt no guilt, ate zero ice cream, did not get a brave new haircut afterwards and managed to shag three people in the seven days [new record!] after you ditched them means it's less a break-up and more a slightly uncomfortable administrative task, like setting up a direct debit to pay council tax, and not, like, a catastrophic two-month period of your life where you keep calling up your friends at odd hours on Tuesday nights, weeping), so you basically know how to do this now.
Bin-bag all your clothes, move urgently into a nearby mate's house and sleep on their sofa for a bit, download Tinder immediately and have a complete mental breakdown when you see them on it as well (only 700 metres away!), get pissed for 15 consecutive days, break contract and move into another flat-share. You don't even need to have a conversation about who gets to stay friends with which friend, because you hated all their friends. You can carve out your niche of the city and they can have theirs. You never have to see them again.
Yes, it cost you close to two grand to move out, and then in, somewhere at such short notice, but I mean come on, they un-ironically watched How I Met Your Mother while you both ate dinner together, come on. You’re better than this! You are better than this!