Noah sat cross-legged on the floor, eating a bowl of cornflakes. Henry had seen this before—only then, it was on a YouTube video during a train ride from Manchester to London. In that video, Noah had poured milk over his cereal and collapsed onto the floor to eat, idly watching his housemates move around him. They hadn’t said a word, stepping carefully to avoid him—an inconvenience they tolerated.
Now, Noah sat on the floor again, eating breakfast as Henry checked his bag, picked an apple from the fruit bowl, and scrolled through his messages before work. The scene unfolded in silence, broken only by the soft tap of Noah’s spoon against the bowl. Their life had become a loop of flashbacks—moments once broadcast to millions, now replayed quietly within the confines of their apartment.
We don’t choose who we live with — we go with whoever they say we must. Fourteen hours a night, every night, every week, locked in a cell with a stranger who becomes someone. You talk until you know each other’s secrets. Then talking becomes boring.
John asks who my perfect cellmate would be. “If there were any justice — haha — I’d share a cell with Luigi Mangione.”
John looks intrigued. “Why him?”
I realise that John’s a good-looking guy, and I know my answer matters; everything rests on what I say. But I bottle it. “I think he’d be an extremely interesting guy.”
John sighs. “I guess he would be.”
Dancing around the truth, neither of us is brave enough to be honest.
Adonis was said to be the son of Theias, king of Syria, and his daughter Myrrha. There was nothing, it seemed, like a touch of incest to produce a child of exquisite beauty. When her father discovered her pregnancy, Myrrha fled and was transformed into a myrrh tree. Yet even in that form, she gave birth to a boy so lovely that Aphrodite herself took pity on him.
The goddess carried the infant to the underworld, entrusting him to Persephone’s care. But when Adonis grew into a youth of rare grace, both women fell hopelessly in love with him. It was inevitable, perhaps, that beauty would bring both adoration and ruin.
One day, while hunting, Adonis was fatally gored by a wild boar—sent, some say, by Artemis to punish his vanity. His blood mingled with Aphrodite’s tears and gave birth to the first anemone. Thus, his beauty became eternal, immortalised in a flower.
And so the story of Adonis was handed down through the ages, until it reached a boy called Banjo.
There is something wonderfully absurd about a boy named Banjo. The name had been chosen simply because his grandfather played the instrument—nothing more mystical than that. Had Banjo been plain, the name might have invited merciless teasing. But as fate would have it, he was beautiful—achingly so—and thus the name became a kind of charm.
He was the sort of young man who made strangers feel vaguely inadequate. They would take in his fine-boned features, his golden skin, his effortless grace, and feel the familiar pang of envy or desire. His beauty unsettled people, as though they were confronted by something not entirely human.
Banjo, however, found his looks exhausting. So he delighted in the single imperfection that spoiled the illusion: a missing front tooth. When people stared too long, he would flash a grin—a broad, dazzling smile—and there it was: the flaw that disrupted the marble perfection.
No one knew how he’d lost it. The rumours ranged from drugs to fights to some impoverished past before fame. The truth, however, was known only to Banjo, and he guarded it carefully. The missing tooth became his private rebellion against the myth others had built around him.
He liked the way it disarmed people, how it made him seem approachable, almost ordinary. It was a reminder that even gods have their fractures. Beauty, he thought, was not found in perfection, but in the quirks and vulnerabilities that betrayed our humanity.
If the ancient sculptors had carved him, they had stopped just short of finishing the smile—leaving him, deliberately, incomplete.
Banjo never replaced the tooth. He kept it as a secret charm, a flaw that told the truth: that myths do not survive in the real world, and perfection is the loneliest lie of all.
I tell myself I like people who are “real,” unpolished, unpredictable. Mild Tourettes, ADHD and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Everything that I need in a lover.
He flinches. He repeats. He forgets. I forgive. Again and again. Love as repetition, love as tic, love as pulse.
I tell myself it’s tenderness I’m after, but really, I crave the hum of his disorder. His chaos matches mine.
The guy asks if I know where he can buy a bag, running a finger under his nose like he’s trying to point out the obvious. We’re standing by the sinks, the mirror cracked just enough to make our reflections look like a bad collage. I know exactly what kind of “bag” he means, and I can’t help him. He grins, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the kind of restless energy that makes the fluorescent light hum louder. “I’m asking for a friend,” he says, winking. Of course he is.
I wash my hands longer than necessary, partly because the tap sticks, partly to see what he’ll do next. He’s still there, pretending to check his hair, pretending not to care. The door opens, and a rush of laughter spills in from the bar — a reminder that the world outside still exists, bright and oblivious. “Good luck to your friend,” I say, reaching for a paper towel. He laughs, too loud, too quick, like someone who knows the joke’s on him.
I met a guy who said he was a plasterer, just back from a job in Rome. His girlfriend, he told me, was at home with their baby. Straight up – or bullshit? Why would he come out alone, to a bar full of gay men? Charlie wandered over, and I asked him for a hug, but he pulled away and said he was tired. The ‘straight’ guy took pity on me, wrapped me in his arms, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I thought how strange it was, this nightly congregation of strangers, everyone orbiting each other with their little stories: plasterers, lovers, liars, and ghosts. Maybe we all came here for the same thing – to be touched, just once, by someone who didn’t owe us anything.
A real life ‘victim’ with apologies – Oskar Panczyk – Instagram
A face flickers onto your screen, luminous against the glow of white. His name is Oskar. Polish.
Do not only look at him — look into him. Look deeper, into the fragile soul the image seems to hold.
Dark, floppy hair falls over his forehead. Eyebrows, plucked into careful shape. Blue eyes, steady yet uncertain. A nose — imperfect, bent by childhood misfortune. He will tell you he hates it. On his cheek, a beauty spot. Lips tinted red, like those of a silenced cherub. Skin smooth, unmarked, a faint pink warmth beneath it — the softness of someone who has not yet learned the burden of a daily shave.
He is handsome. He gazes at you — yes, you — though he cannot see you. You were not there when the shutter snapped. This photograph was never meant for your eyes. He looked into the camera, not knowing that one day 609 strangers scattered across the world would press little red hearts beneath his image and leave their offerings:
Awww. Feel better bby!!
You’re a great boy but why are you always so sad?
Need help warming up?
Chat me… where you from?
The longer you stare, the closer you believe you are to him. It is no longer just his face you think you know, but his voice, halting in broken English. The scent of his skin. His small gestures. The rhythm of his days, chasing money. His favourite dish. The films and songs he loves. The clutter of his apartment, how he folds his clothes, where he hides his secrets. Your imagination strokes him into being, shaping him into someone almost yours.
But it is only an illusion. What you touch is not him, but your own invention — a caress of pixels, a silhouette of desire. This is a one-way street, where your longing paints him in colours he does not wear. The ‘halo effect’ blinds you, persuading you that the good you see must be true.
It is not. It never was.
What you hold in your gaze is not Oskar at all, but your reflection dressed in his borrowed face.
A time of potential, energy, and opportunity, and joy and personal maturation. It’s about vitality and growth. A reward and a source of joy. It is strength and vigour, seen as a time of great potential and opportunity.
A time for learning, maturing, and developing one’s sense of self before the responsibilities of adulthood.
Make the most of it.
It is a foundational period for developing wisdom and forming good habits. Appreciate and make positive choices during this fleeting time because personal fulfillment can still be achieved.
How did it happen? I went for milk. He served me milk. Anything planned tonight mate? I shook my head. That’s a shame mate. What are you doing? Nothing at all mate. I take a chance. Come to mine then. What are you saying? Let’s watch a movie. Not sure about that. Please come, I say. It sounds weird mate. I tell him where. He comes around later. We chatted about things. We watched a movie. Gotta go now mate. I don’t want that. Please stay the night. That looks bad mate. It’s a good offer. He agrees to stay. We have good sex. Next morning he’s dirty. He takes a shower. Gotta go to work. I will miss you. Miss you too mate. Thanks for the milk.
A schoolboy dropped onto the bench beside me. Grey blazer, black trousers, loosened tie, scuffed shoes. I noticed everything that didn’t matter. A rough diamond, I thought – though his sparkle wouldn’t cut much around here.
The riverside benches stretched empty, yet he chose mine. I should’ve told him to shove off. His presence made me feel exposed, grimy. How old was he? Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? I couldn’t pin it.
He glanced at my book. “What’s it about?” The cover stared up at me like a mute witness. Say something. Anything.
Instead, he dug in his bag and handed over his own. HappyHead. Yellow jacket. Boy in a green hoodie. Like Hunger Games, but better.
A woman passed with a rat-sized dog that barked like it deserved drowning. She glanced at us — too long, too sharp. The boy grinned. “He’s my dad.” I was far too young to be. Her cheeks flared; she looked away.
I slid him The Outsiders. Black cover, five combs — four white, one yellow, streaked with red. The misfit.
He read the first lines aloud –
“When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman – he looks tough and I don’t – but I guess my own looks aren’t so bad.”
A smirk tugged his lips, then he handed it back. Game recognised game.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 