I met him by chance, the kind of meeting that feels simple and promising at first. He was polite, well-dressed, spoke nicely, and seemed reliable. For a while, everything looked normal—almost perfect. After a few weeks, he invited me to his place. I didn’t expect luxury, of course, but I did expect basic order.
The moment I stepped inside, my heart sank.
I had never seen such chaos in my life. Clothes were scattered everywhere—clean mixed with dirty. Coins were lying on the floor as if even bending down to pick them up was too much effort. An electrical outlet had been torn out of the wall and hung there dangerously. The air itself felt heavy, stale, uncomfortable. When he noticed the shock on my face, he laughed and said casually, “Oh, come on. I’m just renting this apartment. It’s not mine—why should I clean someone else’s place?”
That sentence told me more about him than months of dating ever could.
The apartment may have belonged to someone else, but he lived there. He slept there, ate there, and spent his days surrounded by that filth. The kitchen was even worse—so bad that I won’t even describe it. I felt physically uncomfortable, almost nauseous. I didn’t argue. I didn’t lecture. I just left. Being there felt humiliating, like stepping into someone else’s neglect.
I’m 26 years old. I know what people say—that it’s time to think about marriage, about children, about stability. But not like this. Not at the cost of my peace of mind. Who raised him to believe this was acceptable? A friend later told me, “Ignore it. Men are all like that these days. He’ll change after marriage. Otherwise, you’ll never get married.”
But I know the truth. After marriage, that mess wouldn’t disappear—it would simply become my responsibility.
Cleanliness isn’t a minor issue for me. It’s not about perfection or obsession; it’s about respect—for yourself and for the person you live with. Life together is built from small things: a toothpaste cap left open, a toilet seat never lowered, dirty dishes piling up day after day. No nerves are strong enough to endure that kind of irritation forever.
Yes, marriage requires compromise. Yes, sometimes you close your eyes to little things. But this wasn’t a “little thing.” This was a lifestyle. I could never live with someone like that, no matter how charming or kind he seemed on the outside.
I never imagined that a man who looked so clean and put-together could live in such filth. But that apartment answered a question I hadn’t even asked yet—and I’m grateful it did before it was too late.