#and watching him slowly become consumed by his disillusionment to the government and military power

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Renting a two-bed flat share in Crawley with a charming man in his mid-to-late twenties whom before moving in, you had never met. His name is Kyle. His working life establishes itself in London, though he chases a train to Hereford from time to time. He turns up the volume on the living room television whenever he prepares his meals for the week so he's able to hear it from the kitchen, though, negating that, will wear headphones and hum along to soulful Mowtown that sparks enthusiasm into each one of his dancing steps.

Kyle gifts you his leftovers with a smile and a wink, and though he's out of the door by six in the morning, he has never once woken you up. His footsteps are light, his gestures considerate, his opinions about cluttered dishwasher shelves gentle but commanding. Kyle does his part around the house to hoover, mop, sweep, and disinfect, and you do them in turn, too, engendered by his vigour. It's a wonderful balance, and you're forever grateful for such a hospitable flatmate because Crawley could have contractually bound you to much worse.

You are aware, vaguely, of what Kyle does for work - only that he's a Sergeant for some version of a mystic stratocracy which doesn't much bother you - and it's always a lovely sound to hear his keys jingle in the door and his muffled shouts that he bought takeaway on his way home for the both of you, dressed in crisp fatigues. Muffled, of course, in particular, as he is always carrying more than he can handle - one of the takeaway bags is between his teeth, the other in his left, and his keys and phone in his right.

A bond forms between the two of you over months - a predictable, comfortable, and ultimately complacent bond. You come to know the Kyle who prefers his bread straight from the freezer, in that you buy a loaf and immediately throw it in without so much as separating the individual slices, despite the limited space within the unit. You're concertedly familiar with the Kyle who triggers the smoke alarm from searing his well-seasoned and certainly not charred steak, and who shouts 'I've got it!" as he wafts a sofa cushion before the detector. You adore the Kyle who laughs unabashedly at television stand-up routines, and the same Kyle on the same evening who wipes the tears from his eyes after agreeing to watch any Pixar film.

Equally, you come to know the Kyle who returns one smoky night, in light of the recent terror plaguing London and the bastards who bombed Piccadilly Circus, who falters despondantly through the front door like a man who once knew joy, and takes his seat plainly on the sofa, glowering at his reflection in the black mirror of the television, apathetic to your concern after he responds with listless silence to your question of;

Is everything alright, Kyle?

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