You arrived too soon.
I didn’t have time to properly clean yet.
I’d tidied the obvious mess,
but I was terrified he’d look in the corners, under the carpet.
I was on my knees scrubbing that old, stubborn bloodstain
but it clung to the floor like a bad secret.
Eyes darting. Heart thudding. Clock ticking.
Mental notes of everything still out of place:
dust bunnies of doubt beneath the couch,
a closet bulging with things I’d shoved in too fast, without thinking.
Too late.
He said he was coming-I think.
At least, that’s what he promised.
He kept me in a state of perpetual preparation.
I couldn’t relax-there was always more to fix.
Didn’t dare sit down with a cuppa.
What if he saw the dirty mug?
I left my journal on the nightstand,
open to the page with the prettiest handwriting,
skipping the one where I blacked out half the lines.
Maybe he’d find my self-awareness charming.
Maybe if I wore the right kind of broken-
broken, but functional and cute,
he’d want to fix me.
The air stung with bleach.
My skin, raw, stripped of demands and hunger, sanitised of all inconvenient needs.
I sprayed air freshener generously,
but the room still stank of something left too long-
history fermenting behind shut doors.
The bell rang.
I re-applied my lipstick.
Tucked away the one unruly hair strand.
Crap. Sticky notes on the mirror-
half affirmations, half desperate reminders: act normal.
I ripped them down and stuffed them in my pocket.
Smiled like I meant it.
Opened the door.
“So? What do you think?” I asked.
He didn’t praise the effort.
I tried to joke:
“Don’t mind the dust bunnies, they’re just my emotional support animals.”
He didn’t laugh.
I even left a sock peeking from under the bed.
Just one. Just enough.
Maybe he’d call me charmingly chaotic.
But he only ever saw the mess.
I started to hate the scent of bleach.
Hated how much I smiled when he entered
like a fool wearing a mask.
Hated how quickly I disappeared when he left.
Hated how much I wanted more.
I wasn’t clean.
I was sterile.
He liked me better that way
bleached into a blank slate,
easy to smear his mess across.
He liked the space I cleared for his baggage.
Funny, he never crossed the threshold.
Just stood there, gaze skimming the surfaces,
always looking for a reason to leave.
Did he think clutter was contagious?
Or was he allergic to me?
The mess might stain his pristine shirt.
He couldn’t be bothered with the extra load of laundry.
Did I not provide the right snacks?
Was the coffee too bitter?
Was I?
But I see it now.
He’d already decided what my home was
right from the doorstep.
It reminded him too much of his own mess.
He refused to see how I’d made it mine.
Anger filled me.
And I realised
I’d been scrubbing myself raw
for someone who was never going to stay,
never mind see me.
Then you arrived.
No inspection. No flinching.
You didn’t wipe your feet.
When you saw the pile of shoes by the door,
you kicked yours off and added to the chaos
grinning, like it was a secret club.
You said, “I love how lived-in this place feels
it’s got character, just like you.”
You walked in like you belonged
straight to the kitchen.
Filled the kettle over a sink full of dishes.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t comment.
“How do you like your tea?” you asked.
You laughed at the honey jar glued to the counter, refusing to move.
“Stubborn little bastard,” you said.
“Just like you. Sweet, and not going anywhere.”
And just like that,
I let the dust settle.
I let the dishes soak a little longer.
For the first time,
I let myself sink into the couch,
legs tucked beneath me, mug warm in my hands.
The silence wasn’t heavy-
it was soft. Forgiving.
Your compliments weren’t plucked for effect or given with careful restraint.
They just fell from you, easy.
“Your eyes make me melt,” you’d say,
like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Like the truth didn’t need dressing up.
Somehow, you made those eyes crinkle
like nobody else could
laughter rising from places I thought had gone quiet.
You wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.
Your love felt like an old armchair
the kind you melt into without thinking,
moulded by memory, worn in all the right places.
It sighed beneath me with a familiar creak.
But I don’t know if it’s comfort... or a warning.
Maybe it fits so well because it remembers every version of me.
Or maybe I’ve contorted myself over time to fit it.
I can’t tell if the fabric holds me,
or just holds on.
Is this quiet safety
or the muffled silence before collapse?
Am I sinking into something too good to be true?
Is it quietly breaking under the weight?
Still, I sit in it.
I hear it groan beneath me
like it’s deciding whether to hold me one more time,
or let the cleaner go.
“So? What do you think?”
I never had to ask.
You just made yourself at home.