She asked about a toothbrush and I checked flight prices
She asked if she could leave a toothbrush at my place and my first instinct was to check flight prices.
Not because I didn't like her. Because I did. And that was the problem.
I'd been seeing her for about a month. Met her at a cafe in Ericeira. She was a photographer, freelance, moved at her own pace but slower than me. She'd stay in a city for three or four months. Build a little life there. Make friends. Find a gym. Know the barista's name by week two. She wasn't trying to lock me down. She just wanted to stop using her finger to brush her teeth in the morning.
I said sure. Smiled. Then lay awake for two hours after she fell asleep running scenarios about what a toothbrush leads to and whether I'd still be able to leave for Bali in November without a conversation I didn't want to have.
A three-dollar toothbrush. And my brain processed it like a binding contract.
That's the trap. You build a life engineered for total independence. One bag. No lease longer than a month. No obligation you can't walk away from in 48 hours. And it works. It works beautifully. Right up until someone shows up who you actually want around. Then you discover your entire life is built for one. There's no room. Not because you don't have the space. Because the system was designed to never need any.
I did this to myself. After I sold the logistics company and spent a year delivering burritos from my childhood bedroom, I decided I would never build anything that could trap me again. No partners. No employees. No commitments I couldn't exit clean. I meant it for business. But it leaked into everything.
Every apartment I rent is set up for a single human. One chair at the desk. One mug in the cabinet. One set of towels. When she started staying over I had to buy a second pillow and the purchase bothered me in a way I couldn't explain to myself. It wasn't the money. It was what it represented. A second pillow means you're expecting someone to return.
You know this. Maybe you turned down someone good because they had a lease in a city you weren't sure about. Maybe you kept things casual with a person you actually cared about because your morning only works when it's quiet and alone. Maybe you told yourself you weren't ready. And maybe that was true. But maybe the deeper truth is that your whole life was constructed so you'd never have to be.
The thing about independence is it solves a real problem. I spent ten years in a business where I couldn't take a sick day without everything falling apart. Of course I swung the other direction. Of course I built walls and called them freedom.
But walls keep things out too. The same structure that protects you from being trapped also protects you from being known. And being known is the whole damn thing.
My parents never had this problem. Nine kids. One bathroom. My mom and dad were so tangled up in each other's lives they couldn't have separated if they tried. Their world was loud and cramped and exhausting and completely alive. They argued about everything. They still do. And they've been finishing each other's sentences for forty years. I used to look at that and think it was a cage. Now I'm not sure who should feel sorry for who.
She left the toothbrush. Blue. It sat in the cup next to mine for eleven days. Some mornings it made me smile. Other mornings it made me want to book a one-way ticket somewhere she wasn't.
She moved on eventually. Not because I was bad to her. Because I was careful with her. And careful, when someone is actually trying to get close to you, feels exactly like a wall with better manners.
I'm working on this one. Slowly. I bought a second mug at the new place last week. Nobody's using it yet. But it's there in the cabinet. Like a question I'm not ready to answer but at least I stopped pretending I couldn't hear it.
The life you build to protect yourself from needing anyone will do exactly what you asked it to.
— Best, Jose
