I woke up convinced it was going to be a productive day.
That’s usually the first mistake.
The plan was simple. A few practical jobs around the house, a walk into the village for supplies, maybe finally fixing the thing I’ve been stepping around for weeks. Nothing ambitious. Nothing that should cause trouble.
By ten in the morning, I’d broken a hinge, lost my keys, and spilled coffee onto the one clean shirt I had left.
It wasn’t dramatic. No explosions. No ambulances. Just a slow, irritating unraveling where every small task quietly refused to cooperate. The kind of day that makes you feel slightly cursed.
The hinge went first. It had been loose for ages, wobbling every time I opened the cupboard. I finally decided to deal with it properly. Five minutes, I thought.
One screw stripped immediately. Another vanished into the floor like it had been swallowed by the house. I tried improvising with something from a jar of “might come in handy one day” bits and made it worse. The cupboard door now hung at a slight angle, like it was disappointed in me.
I abandoned it and went to make coffee, only to knock the mug straight over while reaching for the sugar. Brown liquid everywhere. Counter. Floor. Shirt.
I stood there staring at it longer than necessary, as if waiting for someone else to take responsibility.
Outside, the day was perfect. Sun already warming the stone. Pampaneira looking smug about it.
I decided fresh air would reset things.
I couldn’t find my keys.
They weren’t where they always are. Or anywhere sensible. I checked pockets, surfaces, yesterday’s trousers, the fridge for no logical reason. Eventually I found them in the bathroom. No idea why. No memory of putting them there.
That unsettled me more than it should have.
On the walk into the village, I tripped on the same uneven bit of pavement I trip on every week and narrowly avoided falling directly in front of two old men who looked deeply unimpressed. One of them shook his head, not unkindly, just tired.
At the shop, I forgot what I’d gone in for. Completely blank. I stood pretending to study labels until something jogged my memory. I left with bread, olives, and something I definitely didn’t need.
Somewhere between the shop and home, Carmen crossed my mind.
Not in a dramatic way. Just a quiet awareness that she existed in the background of the day, like a new piece of furniture you’re still adjusting to. We weren’t meant to see each other that day. No plans. No expectations. And yet part of me felt oddly exposed knowing she might ask later how my day had been.
Because “fine” would be a lie, and explaining the truth felt heavier than it should.
Back home, a neighbour stopped me to comment on the cupboard door. He hadn’t been inside. He’d seen it through the open window. Offered advice involving tools I don’t own and confidence I don’t have. I nodded and promised to look into it.
By early afternoon, I gave up. The house was worse than when I started. I was tired without having done anything useful. Everything felt slightly off, like I was half a step behind myself.
I sat on the step with a glass of water and checked my phone. A message from Carmen. Nothing significant. Just a photo of something small and ordinary, sent without commentary.
I realised I was smiling before I realised why.
That was the moment the day softened.
Not because things improved. They didn’t. The hinge was still broken. The shirt still stained. But the weight of the day shifted slightly, as if someone had quietly taken a corner of it and said, you don’t have to carry all of this alone.
It struck me that until recently, bad days here felt like proof. Proof that I still didn’t quite belong. That I hadn’t figured Spain out properly. That I was doing it wrong.
But this was different.
This wasn’t about the village, or culture, or adapting. This was about letting someone see the mess before it’s cleaned up. About not needing to present a version of myself that has everything under control.
By the evening, nothing had been fixed. The list untouched. The cupboard door still hanging crooked.
But I felt calmer.
Not because I’d learned some big lesson, or turned chaos into wisdom. Just because the day had been allowed to be what it was, and I didn’t feel the need to justify it to myself anymore.
Maybe that’s what’s changing.
Not the days themselves. Just the way they land when there’s someone new in the background, quietly reminding you that imperfect is still allowed.
The cupboard door can wait. Some things are already shifting without a screwdriver.