My Housemate Fell Through a Ceiling and I Fell for a Boy

Part 1.

The most beautiful eyes I had ever seen were heading straight towards me, attached to arms wielding a tray full of paninis and coffee. There were customers sat at the tables outside the coffee shop where he worked and as I stood there in the queue, him about to walk past and out the front door, I knew that this was my opportunity.

My chance.

*Sultry voice* my moment.

So I leaned outwards, pulled the door, propped it open with my elbow and tried so desperately to time it in such a way that I’d be able to move my arm and let him through without him having to get the door for himself.

I failed.

Timed it awfully.

The door shut directly in his face.

I sminced (smile-winced).

“I didn’t help at all then did I?”

Though he was wearing a thick black mask, I could feel the universe radiating from his smile behind it. A smile I just knew I was going to kiss one day.

And many days thereafter.

Mom, Dad, I’ve met a boy.

I obstructed his path, got in his way and since then I’ve just decided to stay. Right there. In front of him. Or sometimes behind whilst he’s cooking and I’m being clingy and wrapping my arms around his waist (which is always).

And yeah: I’ve kissed that smile. Plenty of times, actually — but not at all enough.

He’s phenomenal. Stellar. Good. Very good, in all the ways a person can be, except he abbreviates “thank you” to “Ty” *shudders* and uses way too much cooking oil *the shudder dampens as it hits my excess amount of belly rolls.* And I love him. I am in love with him. I have fallen — deep and long, with pit-stops to Caffe Nero along the way — in love with him. With Ben.

But no, don’t you worry. I could and have and probably will again go into a debilitating amass of detail about why I love him and why I want to invest in an in-house gas mask (if girls are made of sugar and spice, then boys are made of the aftermath of digesting all that sugar and spice), but right now that’s not what this is about.

This isn’t about the boy that I’ve fallen for. This is about the fall.

First though, let me tell you about another one:

Part 2.

“Hi Em, sorry to panic you, but Jake has fallen through the ceiling.” Jake’s mom said to me down the phone.

“Oh, my goth!” I replied. I meant to say “God” but I was eating a jacket potato at the time, sat opposite my best friend as she gifted me my first ever house plant who I later named boy (any excuse to kill off boys, am I right?). “Is he okay?”

“A little shaken up. No injuries. He landed okay, he’s just a little startled. Want to speak to him?” She handed the phone to Jake.

“Man,” I began, “I knew you wanted to get off work for the week but this is taking it a little too far don’t you think?”

He laughed. Choked on dust. Told me he was alright.

“I’ll be home asap, I swear. But uh….” I glanced between my best pal and my unfinished dinner, “do you mind if I finish my jacket potato first?”

I finished my jacket potato — then returned home to the Sahara

No, genuinely. The entire stairwell outside mine and Jake’s flat, from our door on the third floor right down to the bottom looked like it’d been licked by the desert.

The stairs are concrete. They wind around and downwards with the railings spiralling alongside. If Jake had fallen three inches to the right, he’d have plummeted straight down and splat right there on the ground floor. I’m so glad he didn’t (I can’t afford to live here without a roommate).

And honestly, when I got home, it was a whirlwind. A dusty one. Jake’s mom was mopping the stairs. Jake was cold-showering off the loft remnants from his hair. We had neighbours supplying us with cleaning equipment and helping us tidy. My dad drove for over an hour just to check out the gaping hole. I gave the mini champagne my best pal got me as part of my house-warming gift to Jake (I think he needed it) and the chocolates to our neighbours. We had stress for dessert.

But yeah. I could quite easily tell you all about the ways in which my housemate decided to test the effects of gravity by hurtling through solid surfaces and towards the centre of the Earth. I could describe the emotional response towards the cost of repairing the hole in a series of pained dinosaur squeals. I could even list six, possibly seven hundred items that you’d probably be able to squeeze through the ceiling gap, including but not limited to: a mini fridge and Michael Cera.

Except, that’s not what this is about either.

This isn’t about the boy who fell through my ceiling. This is about the fall.

We all fall sometimes — and we all rise again

Jake landed on his feet. I landed in love. Some people will break bones. Others will break hearts. There will be cuts and bruises and tears and shock, there will be dust and blood and a hug from your mama. There will be a lot of circumstances inside a lot of contexts in which we will all fall — hard, fast, slow and soft — at some point in our lives.

But do you know what else we’ll do?

We’ll get back up. We’ll rise again. We’ll climb up and towards the stars (except when we’re dead. Or else open-casket funerals would be a Halloween event).

Because falling down, through ceilings, off curbs, or even mentally: that’s just a moment. A handful of moments maybe, but it’s never the whole story. Just a chapter, just a sentence, just a line that lends itself to the next one, the one in which we stand upright again.

Every setback, every knockdown, every bump in the road exists only to remind us that we’re on a journey, that we’re moving, that we’re alive. Mountains are rocky but the peak is out there, sunlit and with a gift shop awaiting our arrival. When we’re sad, it’s a reminder to seek happiness at all costs. When we’re stuck, it’s a reminder to wriggle free. And when we fall down, it’s a reminder to look up, to gaze outwards and see what’s waiting beyond.

And falling in love — though not at all a bad thing — is also only a moment. A handful of moments maybe, but it’s never the whole story. It’s just the beginning. The rest requires remaining in love, rising in it, reinventing it to be a thing entirely of your own.

When you fall in love, let it be a reminder of where you are, why you’re here, and who you’re here with. Because this is home now. You’ve fallen into it like my housemate through a ceiling and this is the place to park up and unpack. This is where you belong, with the person you belong with and though you’ve fallen pretty swiftly, easily, blissfully — it’s up to you to keep this home safe, protected and filled with love.

So do you see?

Do you get what I’m trying to say here?

Don’t stop yourself from falling. Stop clinging onto the sides. Release your grip, let the blood rush back into your knuckles and have faith in the fall. Trust that you’ll land where you’re supposed to — and if you don’t, just know that you can forward roll your way towards wherever you want to go.

Because that’s the thing with falling.

It’s never the end. It’s just the moment before you begin.

You’re simply falling into place. Your place. Yourself.

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Oh hey, whilst you’re here: why not put the “em” into your “emails” and lob your name onto my mailing list for weekly em-bellishments on my rose-tinted, crumb-coated lens of life. It’s the equivalent of the reduced section in the supermarket (low value Weird Crap™ that you didn’t know you needed).