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I don’t know when he moved in, but one day he was just… there. Perched on the corner tile above the mirror, staring at me like he paid rent. A small, pale gecko with a tail that curled like a question mark.

I named him Kevin.

Now, Kevin and I have an understanding. He gets the top half of the bathroom. I get the bottom. If I switch on the light suddenly, he darts behind the exhaust fan. If I take too long in the shower, he stares at me judgmentally. It works.

At first, I considered evicting him. Googled things like “how to get rid of geckos humanely” and “do geckos pay taxes.” But then I noticed something. Kevin eats mosquitoes. Silently. Efficiently. Like a little ninja on my bathroom ceiling.

So I let him stay.

Over time, Kevin became part of the household. I say “hi” when I enter. He blinks. I like to think it’s a mutual respect situation, though he probably just sees me as a giant, hairless inconvenience.

Once, he disappeared for three days. I genuinely missed him. Worried, even. I checked all the corners, behind the mirror, inside the laundry bucket. On the fourth day, he was back—sitting on the shower tap like he owned the place. I almost clapped.

Is it weird to bond with a gecko? Probably. But Kevin doesn’t judge. He’s just there, doing his job, living his tiny lizard life with quiet dignity.

In a world that often feels loud and unpredictable, Kevin is a weirdly comforting constant. He reminds me that not everything needs fixing. Some things—like a gecko in your bathroom—just are.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

This morning, everything went wrong.

I woke up late. My alarm didn’t go off. I spilled toothpaste on my shirt. The milk had gone sour. And just as I stepped outside, it began to rain—the annoying kind, not enough for an umbrella, but enough to soak your socks.

By the time I got to the bus stop, I was drenched, frustrated, and two stops away from a breakdown. I stood there muttering curses to no one in particular when an old man walked up next to me, holding a plastic bag over his head like a makeshift roof. He looked at me, nodded, and said, “Lovely day for a swim, isn’t it?”

I didn’t laugh. I wanted to stay mad. But something about how cheerfully he said it cracked my grumpy armor. I let out a reluctant smile.

Then he pointed at a puddle and said, “Bet there’s a whole universe in there. Tiny frogs, lost keys, maybe even Atlantis.” I laughed this time.

We talked for five minutes, waiting for the bus. I didn’t catch his name, and he didn’t ask mine. He told me he used to be a sailor, hated dry land, and thought umbrellas were a conspiracy by hat-makers.

The bus came, he waved, and walked off in the opposite direction. He hadn’t even been waiting for the bus.

I don’t know who he was, or if any of his stories were real. But something about that five-minute encounter reset my day. He reminded me that not everything has to make sense. That even crappy mornings can be salvaged with a well-timed joke and a bit of puddle-based imagination.

Sometimes, strangers show up exactly when you need them. And then disappear like they were never there.

Weird, isn’t it? But kind of perfect too.