Four of us in the flat, so I cannot host and never will

There are four of us in this flat, one bathroom, one kettle, and a living room that somebody is always sitting in. I cannot host. Not on a quiet week, not if everyone claims to be going out, not ever, because two of them work from the sofa and the third has not left the building in daylight since March.

Twenty five, east London, eighteen months into this. I know how the arithmetic of that reads. It means everything happens at your place or somewhere neither of us lives, and it means I am asking for something and offering nothing except the fact that I am extremely easy to have around and I always bring food.

What I would like is one person, at their own pace, who has thought about this properly rather than agreeing to it now and resenting it in July. I have had one short thing that ended more or less over this, when it turned out that always being the host had worn him down and he had said nothing for four months.

I am also aware that I am the youngest person in most rooms I walk into, and that this comes with assumptions attached. I am not looking for anyone to look after me. I have been paying my own rent since I was nineteen and I am a great deal less delicate than I look.

Not looking for anybody who wants to talk about my age. Not looking for a first evening at somebody's flat. And not looking for anything that has to be kept from my flatmates, since they already know and think it is funny.