Alex hadn’t left the house since the incident. There was no need to take the risk. Work could be done remotely, food could be delivered, and there were box sets to get through. It was safer this way.

The first few days were fine. A nine-hour work shift and 7pm sunset meant the routine took care of itself. Alex assumed this new life would be just as sustainable as the old one, if only smaller. But it didn’t take long for cracks to appear, and each weekend delivered a hammer blow to hopes of recovery.

The vicious cycle of self-care and self-abuse began almost unnoticed. 30 minutes on the yoga mat turned into an hour, which became two sessions a day. When a late Sunday-night purchase brought a running machine to the door, the quest to reverse the ageing process tipped from laudable to dangerous. New products followed it each day. Supplements, dyes, and clothes slowly evolved into injections, DIY procedures, and a savings account labelled ‘surgery’.

At the same time, emotional buoyancy relied increasingly on treats. Sugar, alcohol, herbs, powders, pills. Every unwise but irresistible ingestion was followed by guilt, frustration, and a return to the treadmill. After two months, Alex was unable to look in a mirror and interpret the reflection. What were laughter lines morphed into creases of concern. Blue irises seemed faded to grey, and red hues leaked into whites. The distinction between muscle, fat, and skin was lost almost entirely.

Friends reached out, but messages were easily deflected and calls readily ignored. In rare moments where mental clarity and emotional readiness collided, Alex reflected on how one moment could change a life. How an existence which had seemed so secure, so full of promise and possibilities, could be reduced to… whatever this was. How all that was left to do was wait until time did what time does, and it didn’t matter anymore, if it ever did. Something, it seemed, that would happen sooner rather than later. Unstoppably. Perhaps intentionally.

Occasionally, which is a synonym for regularly, Alex replayed the incident as a memory. It never became less painful, less destructive. In this case, time did not heal, it simply made matters worse. Alex could still smell the faint whiff of body odour and repetition from the tram. Still see the roughly trimmed bushes that offered disappointing cover for the route’s neighbours and inadequate scenery for its passengers. Alex could still see the kindness in the eyes of the mother and the innocence on the face of the child.

‘Stand up,’ the mother said.’You should always offer your seat to older people if there are no free chairs.’

The child stood. Alex looked for the older person. The child looked at Alex. The mother looked at Alex. Alex’s world fell apart. 42 years old. No age. And not even a life well spent.