Me, My Life & Why Part 12

Part 12

Alex didn’t arrive with a speech.

No “You’ve Got This” tote bag.

No energy like he was about to TED Talk my life into submission.

He just… showed up.

On my kitchen floor.

At 11:04pm.

Eating cereal out of a mug because the bowls were all in the sink and neither of us cared enough to fix that.

We’d met through mutual chaos.

A friend of a friend. One of those “you’d get along” setups that normally result in polite nodding and a mutual agreement to never text again.

But Alex didn’t do polite nodding.

He did long silences and well-timed sarcasm.

He asked questions like he actually wanted the answers, then didn’t blink when the answers were unhinged.

That night, we didn’t plan to hang out.

I posted a story of burnt toast and wrote “Me, trying to thrive in a capitalist society.”

Alex replied with a photo of his own burnt toast. No caption. Just solidarity.

But it made me smile.

So I said, “I have bread and no clean spoons.”

And he replied, “Be there in twenty.”

He showed up in joggers, holding a spoon from his own kitchen like he was bringing peace offerings to a feral raccoon.

I liked that.

I liked him.

He didn’t ask if I was okay.

Didn’t try to fix the mess.

Just stepped over a pile of laundry, sat on the floor, and said, “So. Cereal or toast?”

We chose cereal.

Poured the last of the milk between us like a sacred ritual.

Talked about absolutely nothing for twenty minutes.

Then accidentally everything.

Turns out, Alex also hates being told what to do by clocks.

He also has a semi-hostile relationship with email.

He once left a full trolley in Tesco because he couldn’t face the checkout line and went home with nothing but a Twix.

Soulmate energy, if I’ve ever seen it.

There was no flirtation. No performance.

Just two people on a sticky linoleum floor, holding spoons and space for each other.

I didn’t feel like I had to earn his attention.

Didn’t feel like I had to apologise for my brain, or over-explain the toast crumbs on the duvet.

He didn’t ask for a version of me that had showered or spoken to another adult that day.

He just… sat.

Quiet.

Comfortable.

Like my chaos was breathable, not contagious.

And something about that unlocked me.

Because I’m used to people who try to fix.

Who panic at the sight of mess.

Who ask, “Have you tried yoga?” when I say I haven’t slept in three days and have cried six times over missing socks.

Alex just said, “Yeah. Same.”

And passed the cereal.

And suddenly, everything felt a little less dramatic.

Not fixed. Not solved.

But held.

Later, as he rinsed his mug and placed it on the mountain of dishes with casual disrespect for domestic order, he turned and said, “This was nice.”

Not “we should do this again.”

Not “let’s hang out sometime.”

Just: this was nice.

And it was.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

It was the first time in months I didn’t feel like I had to keep up, mask the mess, or narrate the spiral.

The first time I didn’t want to disappear after the interaction.

Didn’t feel drained or scrutinised or performative.

Just seen.

Just held.

Just… me.

Then there was Alex.

And that changed everything.

Not all at once.

Not loudly.

But completely.