The Day I Turned My Toilet Into a Fountain

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TThe Day Before Moving Away, I Turned My Toilet into a Fountain

The Day Before a New Life Began, I Turned My Toilet into a Fountain

The day before a move is always hectic.

Packing, changing my address, dealing with the electricity and gas.

And for me — having lived in a rental — there was one final mission: remove the washlet seat I’d installed and put the original toilet seat back before handing the apartment over.

I opened the instruction manual and got to work.

“First, close the water shutoff valve…”

I was pretty sure I’d closed it.

I thought I had, anyway.

I was wrong.

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The Human Thumb Is No Match for Water Pressure

The moment I disconnected the washlet hose, water erupted with the force of something that had been waiting years for this exact opportunity.

A fountain.

An actual fountain.

In my toilet.

Water sprayed everywhere, and the floor was soaked within seconds.

By pure reflex, I pressed my thumb over the end of the hose.

Why?

I have no idea.

I think it’s a pan-human instinct — something hardwired into our species at the most basic level:

Water is coming out of a hole. Block hole with thumb.

My thumb, however, was no match for the water pressure.

My hand started shaking.

My clothes were soaked.

My hair was soaked.

The entire bathroom was soaked.

I bolted into the hallway in a panic.

I needed to shut off the main water valve.

But I had no idea which one it was.

Meanwhile, the water kept pouring out.

I finally looked it up on my phone, found the right valve, and managed to shut it off.

By the time I’d mopped up the floor, I was completely drained.

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The Unexpected Trouble on the Last Day of the Move

And then, while toweling myself off, a thought occurred to me that made everything worse.

My renter’s insurance had already been switched over to the new address.

If that water had reached the apartment below, I might have been finished.

But the real ordeal was only beginning.

Once I’d put the original toilet seat back and turned the water on again, a new problem announced itself: a slow, steady drip from the connection at the tank.

Every three seconds.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It wouldn’t stop.

I couldn’t figure out what was wrong.

So I did something I’m slightly embarrassed to admit: I contacted the person who used to live in this apartment with me — my ex — and asked for help.

The answer came quickly.

It was the rubber washer.

More specifically, it was the orientation of the washer and the way it had been seated.

That was it.

Nothing more.

I adjusted it, and the dripping stopped as though it had never happened.

I sat there for a moment, realizing that modern civilization depends on things we barely notice: tiny rubber rings, carefully placed in exactly the right way.

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At 6:30 a.m., My Battle with the Water Filter Began

The next morning.

Moving day.

And I remembered something else.

The water filter.

Still attached to the kitchen faucet.

And it wouldn’t come off.

It was 6:30 in the morning.

I messaged my ex repeatedly.

The filter’s joint had seized up completely, and I couldn’t get it to budge.

In the end, the movers had to help me.

They got the filter off.

But then the faucet’s end piece — the little aerator cap that screws onto the tip — was nowhere to be found.

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There Are Always Parts That Disappear During a Move

Not in any box.

Not on any surface.

Not anywhere.

I didn’t even remember putting it away.

Some parts simply vanish.

That’s a fact of life I’ve come to accept.

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The Floor Damage I Feared Most Was Completely Innocent

Then came the move-out inspection.

I had prepared myself for the worst.

The scuff marks on the tatami.

The wear on the hardwood floor.

And one particular gouge in the floor that I’d made in a spectacular moment of losing it shortly after my breakup — I’d thrown a massage roller across the room, and it had left its mark.

I was certain they’d find it.

I was certain I’d be paying for it.

But that’s not what happened.

The inspector’s list was surprisingly short:

The bathroom floor and door needed cleaning.

The bathroom ventilation fan.

The kitchen sink.

A few thousand yen in total.

The floor damage I’d been so worried about?

Completely overlooked.

Innocent.

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That Apartment Held the Love, the Tears, and Everything In Between

Standing there in that empty apartment, I thought about everything that room had held.

The end of a relationship.

Days of crying.

Days of laughing.

And, in its final hours, a toilet turned fountain.

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Even the Last Day Had to End in a Very “Me” Way

A fitting ending, really.

Very me.

I’d been thinking about leaving my job and moving away for a long time.

The decision had felt enormous — something that deserved a moment of solemnity, a clear sense of turning point.

But what I’ll actually remember from those last days isn’t any grand resolve.

It’s the water shooting out of a hose I was supposed to have shut off.

The three-second drip.

The missing aerator cap.

Maybe that’s how life actually works.

The big transitions don’t always announce themselves with fanfare.

Sometimes they arrive alongside the mundane chaos, and you get through both at the same time.

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And Then, My Real Move Began

And so — toilet turned fountain, water filter defeated, inspection passed — I finally had my ticket out of the city.

The boxes were moving to a new place.

The rest of me would take a little longer.

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