The Lost Boy - Chapter 7 – part one - When Care Meets Chaos

I vaguely remember being collected. It’s hazy — so hazy I’m not even sure if it’s a memory or just my mind stitching the pieces together. But I know there was a phone call. And I know that when I needed someone, he was the one who showed up.

This friend was someone I could rely on. Always there to support me if he could. And truthfully, I don’t think that would be any different if I picked up the phone and called him now — even though, for reasons I can’t quite explain, we haven’t spoken much these past couple of years.

I met him when I was young. He’d been there when I was locked up in young offenders, helping me through some heavy things, teaching me how to sit with my anger instead of just exploding. He helped me start to understand where it came from. That wasn’t a small thing — it was the beginning of me seeing myself differently. Over the years we stayed friends. Sometimes we’d talk loads, sometimes not at all, but whenever we did it always felt like picking up where we left off. No judgment, no awkwardness.

After supporting me through my breakdown — whatever that was really about — he came to collect me. I think I remember grabbing a few belongings before the drive to his place.

He lived alone in a three-bed terrace in Birmingham. A bit of a Tardis, to be fair. From the outside it looked like nothing special, but inside it opened up into something more. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was solid. Comfortable. This man had his shit together — a good career, a lovely home, and a way of making anyone who knew him feel lucky to call him a friend. He was the sort of person who’d go above and beyond without ever making it feel like a big deal.

The house had three bedrooms: one for him, a box room he used as an office, and the guest room — which instantly became mine. Downstairs was a cosy living room, dining room, kitchen, and then out back, a huge overgrown garden.

He did everything he could to make me feel comfortable, to make me feel at home. And I did. I’ll never forget one thing in particular — it told me everything about how he saw me being there. Early on, he took me out to buy a brand-new mattress for the room. Not a cheap one, either. He spent what, to me, felt like a small fortune. And fuck, was it comfortable. That small act told me straight away this wasn’t just “crash here until you sort yourself out.” It was: this is your room now. This is home.

And that wasn’t all.

Not long after, he took me to the dentist. At that point I had this horrible little denture — one lonely tooth on a pink plate that sat against the roof of my mouth and made me gag every time I wore it. It had even broken somewhere along the way. I hated it.

He reassured me how good his dentist was and said, “Come on, we’ll get this sorted. It’ll look good, you’ll see.” And so we went. The first visit was moulds and a few fillings, then came the fitting. He paid the bill — just like that. I think at the time there was some vague agreement I’d pay him back one day, and I always promised myself I would, but the truth is, I never have. It’s never been spoken about since. He never asked, I never dodged — it just wasn’t who he was.

The tooth was a bridge, not an implant. Basically, the gap was filled by a tooth held in place with a pair of tiny wings cemented to the back of the teeth either side. It looked good, but it didn’t last. The dentist seemed surprised, but I knew why: I sucked my thumb.

Yep. A grown man, still sucking his thumb. Even now, every once in a while I’ll wake up and find it in my mouth — though at least these days it’s not something I choose to put there. Back then, though, that was just me: living in a friend’s guest room with a brand-new mattress, a freshly fitted bridge, and still sucking my thumb.

And he didn’t stop there. With the generosity.

He signed me up to the gym round the corner — and of course, he paid for that too. On the surface it probably looked like I was just taking him for a ride, letting him bankroll me. But it wasn’t like that. He was just that generous, that kind. I did enjoy being taken care of, I won’t lie. It felt good to have someone putting things in place for me when I didn’t have the energy or the means to do it myself. But at the same time, there was guilt there too. Not enough to say no, though — and not that he would have let me. Once he’d made his mind up to help, there was no arguing with him.

It wasn’t just the big things either. Life with him also had a rhythm to it — simple, grounding, and good. We’d go to the local cinema now and then, have meals out, order the odd takeaway. But one thing I’ll never forget — something I still smile about now — was cooking together.

We made it a ritual. We’d decide on a meal, im pretty sure we did some gordon Ramsey recipes, but they could be anything and once we had decided we would head to the shop for the ingredients, then come back and put some music on. Jack Johnson was our go-to. I’ve always loved a bit of acoustic, and his songs just set the tone perfectly.

We’d split the tasks without even needing to say much — one of us chopping, the other stirring — chatting all the while. A beer or a glass of wine in hand as the food came together. And then we’d sit down and share it, talking about how it turned out like we were our own little food critics.

They were small moments, but they were special. Safe. Human. Looking back, I realise how much they meant — and how much they showed me about what friendship really is.

This friend helped me grow, calm, and shape into a kinder version of Gareth over the years. He always showed me there was something different inside me — something I couldn’t see, or maybe didn’t want to believe in. It was like he held up a mirror, reflecting back the parts of me I didn’t even know existed, or at least never thought could exist in me. The care, the guidance, the way he never judged me — and the space he gave me to be myself, to say what I needed without fear of being condemned. That is something I’ll never forget. I carry thanks for that man in my heart, always, for what he taught me just by being who he was.

This friend was gay. Nothing ever happened between us — we were simply friends — but spending time with him did make me question my sexuality at times. And it wasn’t because I fancied him. It was more about the level of love and care he showed me, a kind of presence I wasn’t used to. I think I was attracted to that, to being seen and valued in a way I hadn’t often felt before. But with what my life had been like, it was easy to confuse feelings like that.

I never explored the idea, and I know now — as I did then — that I’m straight. Looking back, I can see it wasn’t about sexuality at all. It was about confusion, about learning to receive love in ways I hadn’t before. What I mistook for attraction was really just me learning how it feels to be cared for without judgment, and realising that it was okay to let that in.

The drink was there, yes, but in those early days it was sociable, easy. Nothing I’d call dangerous at the time. Acceptable, even.

But the truth is, even in the middle of all that love, kindness, and care — lost young Gareth was still there too. Hiding where he could, showing up where he couldn’t. That’s the part I couldn’t escape, no matter how comfortable or cared for I was. And that’s what the next chapter will touch on: how he lingered, what I managed to keep out of sight, and what I couldn’t hide at all..