Jess Glynne and Alex Scott have been forced apart, just days after being reunited following the footie star’s jungle exit.

Alex, 42, flew home early from Australia following her jungle exit to be with her girlfriend, Jess.

Alex and Jess have been dating for over two years (Credit: CoverImages.com)

Alex Scott leaves the jungle early after Jess Glynne reveals mum’s health diagnosis

Last month saw Alex become the first celebrity to leave the I’m A Celebrity jungle.

The former Lioness managed to last 13 days before being voted out by the public.

Following her exit, Jess posted on Instagram, revealing that the reason she hadn’t been in Oz to meet Alex after she left the jungle was that her mum had just had a stroke. 

“Over the last few weeks, my mum suffered a major stroke and needed urgent brain surgery,” she said on Instagram.

“It’s been a really serious, life-altering time for my family, and I’ve had to stay close to home. Alex would always want me to be where I’m needed most. I can’t wait to have her back by my side [love heart emoji].”

Alex subsequently left Australia, opting not to stay until the finale as celebs most often tend to do.

Alex was at hospital (Credit: Instagram)

Alex and Jess forced apart?

Yesterday, Alex shared a snap from a hospital on her Instagram story.

The star shared a snap of a salad she’d had delivered to the hospital. “Special delivery of @farmerjfood to the hospital today and it worked a treat,” she captioned the snap.

The star didn’t say why she was at the hospital.

However, Jess wasn’t with her, as the singer is currently in America.

In a video posted to her Instagram, Jess spoke about how her hit song, Hold My Hand, is the biggest song on TikTok in the UK in 2025.

“I’m actually currently in LA to record something super special for the song,” she teased.

“And you will see it, coming soon,” she then said, before teasing new music next year.

Alex’s representatives declined to comment when approached by ED!.

Alex misses the I’m A Celeb wrap party

After leaving Australia following her jungle exit, Alex missed the wrap party the celebs enjoyed after Angry Ginge’s crowning as King of the Jungle.

All of Alex’s fellow campmates were present during the final episode of the show, where Ginge’s win was broadcast live from Down Under.

However, despite not being at the wrap party physically, Alex still made her presence known, sharing a FaceTime call with her fellow campmates.

Sharing a screenshot of the FaceTime call on Instagram, she wrote: “Gutted not to be with you all.”

Jess Glynne had not expected her return to London to feel like this, stepping off the plane with the metallic taste of defeat still clinging to her throat and the humidity of the jungle somehow trapped in her lungs. She had imagined coming home triumphant or at least empowered, carrying the chaos of the experience like a badge of honour. Instead, she carried exhaustion—bone-deep, spirit-heavy exhaustion that made even the act of breathing feel like an obligation. Cameras had been waiting for her at the airport, of course; they always were, always ready to capture a story before she even understood what her story was going to be. They saw only what they could frame: Jess in sunglasses, Jess with her hood up, Jess walking quickly, Jess avoiding questions. They didn’t see the way her heart stumbled in her chest, the way her stomach twisted with a familiar tension that she had been wise enough to fear but not wise enough to outrun. They didn’t see how much she wanted to collapse right there on the cold linoleum floor and let someone else carry the weight for once.

Alex Scott had been waiting at home, glued to her phone after hearing only the vaguest hint that Jess had left the jungle early. The producers had been tight-lipped, evasive, speaking in half-sentences and PR-friendly reassurances that didn’t actually reassure. When Jess finally texted—“I’m coming home. Don’t come to the airport. Please.”—Alex felt her chest tighten in a way that frightened her. She read the message again and again, fingers trembling slightly over the screen. Jess rarely said “please.” Jess rarely asked to be alone. When she did, it meant something was unraveling beneath the surface.

Jess did not go home. Not at first. She went instead to the studio apartment she kept for privacy, the one hardly anyone knew about. She collapsed onto the bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling until her vision blurred, her mind replaying scenes she wished she could erase. The jungle had been louder than she expected, not just in noise but in intensity—every vulnerability pressed to the surface, every hidden fear dragged out into the open. She had tried so hard to remain composed, to stay solid, to pretend the cameras didn’t capture her weakest moments. But the truth was that the isolation, the unpredictable challenges, the unfamiliar environment, had worn her raw. And beneath that rawness, something darker had begun to stir—old anxieties, old health issues she had tried to bury, old pressures rising like ghosts from the past.

When the pain in her abdomen sharpened to something she could no longer dismiss, Jess knew she couldn’t hide anymore. Her vision darkened, her limbs trembling as though her muscles were remembering trauma she had never spoken aloud. She slid off the bed and landed on her knees, breath shallow, hand pressed to her side. For a moment, she thought she would faint. For a moment, she thought she might not wake up if she did.

The taxi driver who helped her into the hospital wheelchair didn’t recognize her, and she was grateful. It was the first anonymity she had felt in days. The fluorescent lights blurred above her as nurses asked questions she couldn’t answer quickly enough. She tried to hold herself upright in the hospital bed but her body fought her, heavy with exhaustion and something she couldn’t yet name. She felt her defenses slipping, the walls she built crumbling. And in that moment—weak, shaking, terrified—she did something she had never done before in her career: she posted a picture. Not a polished photo. Not a promotional image. Just a raw, dimly lit snapshot of her hospital wristband and her hand resting on the thin blanket.

No caption. No explanation.
Just the truth—silent but undeniable.

Within minutes, the world erupted.

Alex saw the photo while sitting on the sofa, the TV on but unregistered. Her breath caught painfully in her throat as she stared at the screen, her heart thudding so violently she felt it echo inside her skull. She tried calling immediately, then again, then again, each ring slicing through her nerves like a blade. When Jess didn’t answer, Alex felt her knees weaken. She pressed her palm to her forehead, fighting tears of frustration and fear. She didn’t care about the headlines already forming. She didn’t care about speculation or gossip or whatever narrative the world wanted to spin. She cared only that the woman she loved was alone in a hospital room, hurting, refusing help.

When she finally reached Jess’s manager, the answer chilled her: “Jess asked us not to call you. She said she didn’t want to worry you.”
Alex nearly dropped the phone. Worry her? She was already breaking.

For Jess, the decision to keep Alex away had not been an act of cruelty. It had been an act of fear—fear of collapsing in front of the one person she wanted to be strong for, fear of needing too much, fear of being seen in this fragile, stripped-down state. She had always been the fighter, the survivor, the unbreakable one in the public eye. And Alex, so steady, so patient, so breathtakingly sincere, made Jess want to be better. That yearning was both beautiful and terrifying.

Jess lay in the hospital bed, eyes half-closed, listening to the rhythmic beep of the monitors. She felt too tired to speak, too weary to pretend, too overwhelmed to hide. For the first time in a long time, she let the exhaustion wash over her. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t posing. She wasn’t pretending. She was just… human.

The doctors ran tests, spoke in clinical tones, confirmed she was dehydrated, malnourished, emotionally burnt out, physically depleted. A dangerous combination. Jess nodded without absorbing the words. Her body felt distant, like something she had stepped out of. She drifted in and out of sleep, her dreams full of jungle sounds and the distant voice of Alex calling her name.

Meanwhile, Alex sat in her car outside the hospital, unable to go inside because Jess had said she needed space. Alex stared through the windshield, watching the revolving doors, expecting—hoping—to see Jess appear. Hours passed. The sky shifted from bright to bruised. The air conditioner hummed softly. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her heart was tethered to the building, to Jess, to a fear she couldn’t voice aloud. She typed dozens of messages, deleted almost all of them, sent only one: “I’m here whenever you need me. No pressure. No questions. Just love.”

Jess didn’t reply. But she read it. Again and again.

Inside the hospital, Jess felt the ache of missing Alex like a physical wound. She had pushed her away out of self-preservation, but now that she lay alone in the sterile room, she felt the weight of her choice crushing her. She pictured Alex’s face, the softened edges of her smile, the warmth of her hands, the way she always seemed to anchor Jess without effort. She wanted her. She needed her. But need was a dangerous thing—one Jess had never learned to accept gracefully.

Hours later, when the nurses dimmed the lights, Jess finally broke. Not with sobbing or dramatic cries—just a quiet, steady stream of tears sliding down the sides of her face. She held her phone against her chest, not calling, not texting, just holding it as if Alex’s voice could seep through the metal and steady her heart.

Meanwhile, the media frenzy intensified.
“JESS GLYNNE RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER SHOCK EXIT.”
“ALEX SCOTT AND JESS FORCED APART?”
“WHAT REALLY HAPPENED IN THE JUNGLE?”
Speculation became wildfire. Fans were confused, supportive, intrusive, divided. Some blamed the show. Some blamed the pressure of fame. Some blamed the relationship. None of them knew the truth: the distance between Jess and Alex was not conflict—it was fear, love, and vulnerability tangled into something neither woman knew how to unravel.

That night, unable to bear it anymore, Alex walked into the hospital despite Jess’s request. She found the room number, steadied her breath, and opened the door. Jess, half-asleep, blinked slowly. When she saw Alex, her face crumpled—not in anger, but in relief so powerful it almost shattered her. Alex crossed the room in seconds and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching gently for Jess’s hand. Jess didn’t pull away. She let her fingers curl into Alex’s palm, grounding herself in the warmth she had been too afraid to ask for.

“I’m sorry,” Jess whispered.
“You don’t have to be,” Alex replied, her voice trembling. “You just have to let me be here.”

Jess closed her eyes and leaned toward her, allowing herself to be held, to be seen, to be vulnerable. For the first time in days, she felt safe. The jungle couldn’t touch her here. The cameras couldn’t reach her. The world could wait.

Alex stroked her hair, whispering softly, “You don’t have to face anything alone. Not ever.”
And Jess believed her.

The next days blurred into a slow, gentle recovery—fluids, rest, whispered conversations in dim hospital light. Jess ate small bites of food under Alex’s quiet encouragement. She watched movies with her head on Alex’s shoulder. She let herself breathe.

The world outside spun its gossip, but inside that room, time softened. They were not forced apart—they were learning how to come back together, honestly, vulnerably, without performance. Jess apologized for pushing Alex away. Alex apologized for not seeing the signs sooner. They spoke through fears they had never voiced, peeled back the layers of emotional armor that fame had forced them to build.

When Jess was finally discharged, Alex took her home—not to the apartment Jess hid in, but to the home they shared, the one filled with warmth and messy love and the scent of morning coffee. Jess walked inside slowly, breathing in the familiarity. She felt fragile, but she also felt held.

In the weeks that followed, they rebuilt the tenderness between them—not because they were forced apart, but because they chose to come back together. Jess posted a final message to her fans, thanking them for concern and explaining—gently, honestly—that she needed time to heal. She didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t need to. Alex stood behind the camera as she recorded the video, smiling softly whenever Jess faltered. And Jess, seeing her there, found strength in the reminder that love did not demand perfection—only presence.

Their relationship didn’t just survive the ordeal; it grew deeper, richer, more grounded. Jess learned to lean. Alex learned to speak. And together, they learned that distance born of fear can be bridged by courage.

They had not been forced apart.
They had been broken open, and in the breaking, they found each other again.

The days that followed unfolded with a strange, dreamlike softness, as though Jess were walking through a world made of blurred light and muted sound. Her body still felt unfamiliar, heavy in some places and hollow in others, as if the exhaustion she had carried home from the jungle had seeped into her bones and settled there like a fog that refused to lift. She moved slowly through the quiet rooms of the house she shared with Alex, pausing often just to breathe, to remember she was safe here, that she was allowed to rest. There were moments when the silence felt too loud and moments when she welcomed it like a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Healing was not a straight line—not for her, not ever—and she found herself drifting between gratitude and vulnerability in uneven waves.

Alex, meanwhile, seemed to sense every emotional shift Jess went through. She hovered without hovering, offering presence without pressure, letting Jess set the pace. Sometimes she cooked meals Jess barely touched but appreciated nonetheless. Sometimes she sat beside her on the sofa, legs curled beneath her, reading quietly while Jess stared at the flickering glow of the television without absorbing any of it. Sometimes she simply rested her hand on Jess’s knee, a grounding weight that reminded Jess she wasn’t alone, not even in the moments when her mind tried to convince her otherwise.

One evening, Jess found herself standing in the doorway to the living room, watching Alex from a distance. Alex was sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, sorting through a pile of mail. The late sunset filtered through the curtains, bathing her in warm amber light. She looked calm, steady, effortlessly beautiful in that gentle, quiet way that always struck Jess like a soft ache. Jess felt something tighten in her chest—not pain exactly, but recognition. Recognition of everything Alex had been for her over the past days, weeks, months. Recognition of how close she had come to pushing her away entirely. Recognition of how much she loved her, and how terrifying that love sometimes felt.

She walked forward slowly, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor. When Alex looked up and met her eyes, Jess felt her breath catch. Alex’s expression softened—concern flickering for a moment, followed by a warm, welcoming smile that reached the corners of her eyes. Jess lowered herself onto the floor beside her, knees pulled up, hands clasped in her lap. There were no words at first, just a long, quiet moment filled with the gentle hum of the house around them.

“I’m sorry,” Jess murmured finally, her voice small but steady. “Not for getting sick… but for shutting you out. For thinking I had to do it alone.”

Alex shifted closer and brushed her thumb over the back of Jess’s hand. “You didn’t do it on purpose. You were scared. You were overwhelmed. And even if you had done it on purpose, I’d still be here.” Her voice was soft but certain, grounded in truth. “I’m not going anywhere, Jess.”

Jess swallowed hard, her throat tight. She rested her head against Alex’s shoulder, closing her eyes as Alex’s hand moved to her back in slow, soothing circles. The movement unraveled something inside Jess—something knotted and fragile—and she let herself lean fully into Alex for the first time since she had returned from the jungle. Being held without having to apologize felt like a gift she hadn’t known how to accept before now.

Later, when they moved to the sofa, Jess curled into the corner with her legs tucked beneath her while Alex draped a blanket over both of them. They watched the sky outside shift from pastel gold to deep indigo, the stars blinking faintly into view. Jess felt the weight of the week pressing against her skin, not entirely lifted but no longer suffocating. She reached for Alex’s hand under the blanket, threading their fingers together. Alex squeezed gently, wordlessly affirming everything Jess hadn’t yet found the courage to say aloud.

In the days that followed, Jess began rebuilding her strength one small act at a time. She started eating more consistently—not because she was hungry, but because she knew she needed to. Alex cooked meals rich with comfort: warm soups, roasted vegetables, soft bread. Jess ate slowly, sometimes only a few bites, but each bite felt like reclaiming something she had lost. She took short walks with Alex around their neighborhood, breathing in the crisp morning air, feeling the sun warm her skin. Each step felt deliberate, intentional, a quiet promise to herself not to disappear into exhaustion again.

Through it all, Alex stayed beside her. She laughed softly when Jess made sarcastic comments, held her when her energy dipped, gave her space without making her feel alone. Jess found herself watching Alex with a kind of awe—how someone could be so patient, so intuitive, so present without ever making her feel like a burden. It humbled her. It scared her. It healed her.

One afternoon, Jess sat on the back steps with a cup of tea warming her palms, watching the gentle sway of the trees. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and faint summer sweetness. She tilted her head back and let the breeze wash over her face. She felt almost peaceful, though a flicker of anxiety still lingered beneath the surface. She was learning not to fight that flicker—learning instead to acknowledge it, breathe through it, let it pass without letting it consume her.

Alex joined her quietly, sitting down beside her with a glass of water. They didn’t speak immediately. They just sat, shoulders touching, watching the slow choreography of leaves in the wind.

“Do you ever feel like you lost yourself somewhere along the way?” Jess asked eventually, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alex didn’t hesitate. “All the time,” she said. “But I also think we find ourselves again. Maybe in bigger ways. Maybe in quieter ways. Maybe in the people who love us.”

Jess nodded slowly, her eyes stinging with emotion. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear that. She leaned her head against Alex’s shoulder. Alex rested her cheek gently on top of Jess’s hair.

“You’re not lost,” Alex murmured. “You’re just… in transition.”

Jess let out a soft, trembling laugh. “Feels like I’m stuck in limbo.”

“Then I’ll sit in limbo with you,” Alex replied simply.

Those words settled into Jess’s heart like a steady pulse.

That night, Jess woke from a restless sleep, breath uneven, heart racing with a dream she couldn’t fully remember. She sat up, pressing her hand to her chest. The room was dark except for the soft glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. She felt disoriented, shaky. Instinctively, she reached for Alex—but stopped herself, the old fear rising again. What if she was too much? What if waking Alex meant she was selfish, dramatic?

Before she could spiral, she felt movement beside her. Alex turned toward her, her voice low and sleepy. “Jess? You okay?”

Jess felt tears prick at her eyes. “I… I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Alex murmured. She reached out and touched Jess’s cheek, brushing away the tear that had escaped. “Talk to me.”

Jess inhaled shakily. “I just… I feel like I’m holding everything together with tape. Like one wrong breath and I’ll fall apart again.”

Alex sat up, cupped Jess’s face in both hands, and kissed her forehead tenderly. “Then fall apart,” she whispered. “I’ll help you back together.”

Jess let out a sob, leaning into Alex’s embrace. The vulnerability she had been holding at arm’s length cracked open, raw and real, and she let her tears fall freely. Alex held her, steady and sure, whispering soft reassurances until Jess’s breathing returned to something closer to calm. When Jess finally lay back down, Alex curled around her protectively, one arm draped over her waist.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered again.

For the first time since she had returned home, Jess believed her.

The next morning, something shifted inside Jess. Not dramatically—not a revelation or a breakthrough—but a small, delicate click, like a key turning in a lock that had been stuck for far too long. She felt the weight on her chest lighten just enough to let in a breath that didn’t hurt. She looked at Alex, still asleep beside her, and felt a rush of gratitude so overwhelming it left her breathless. She realized she didn’t have to be perfect to be loved. She didn’t have to be strong to be worthy. She didn’t have to navigate the darkness alone.

Healing wasn’t a destination. It was a continuous, imperfect journey. And she finally understood she didn’t have to walk it alone.

Over the following weeks, Jess returned slowly to her routines. She wrote music again—not for release, not for an album, but for herself. The melodies came in fragments, broken pieces that reflected the quiet storm she was emerging from. She hummed them in the kitchen while Alex cooked breakfast, wrote lyrics on napkins and scraps of paper, let her emotions spill into the work in ways she had never allowed before. Creativity became her therapy—a way to process the pain without being consumed by it.

She also returned to therapy, something she had stopped months earlier when life became too full, too chaotic. Her therapist listened with compassion, helping her sift through the tangled emotions of burnout, pressure, perfectionism, and fear. Jess cried in those sessions. She laughed too. She learned to name the things she hadn’t wanted to look at. And slowly, she felt herself adjusting—growing.

Alex continued to support her, not as a caretaker but as a partner—someone who walked beside her rather than in front or behind. Their relationship deepened, not because they avoided hardship, but because they survived it together. Jess learned to communicate. Alex learned to listen more deeply. They found a softness in each other that felt like home.

The media eventually moved on to other stories, other scandals, other celebrities. The intensity faded, leaving Jess and Alex to rebuild their life in the quiet margin between public attention and private healing. They took weekend trips to the coast. They cooked together. They had long, meaningful conversations about boundaries and expectations. Jess wrote a love song for Alex but didn’t tell her—she wanted to finish it first. She wanted it to be perfect in a way that wasn’t about performance but sincerity.

And one evening, weeks after the hospital, Jess and Alex sat in the garden together, wrapped in a blanket as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Jess rested her head on Alex’s shoulder, and Alex intertwined their fingers.

“You saved me,” Jess whispered.

Alex kissed her hair. “No, love. You saved yourself. I just reminded you how strong you are.”

Jess closed her eyes, letting the words settle deep in her chest.

She felt whole—not fully, not flawlessly—but whole in the way a person becomes after breaking and rebuilding, after learning fragility is not weakness, after realizing that being loved through the hardest moments is one of life’s quiet miracles.

She had returned from the jungle early.
She had posted a picture from the hospital.
The world had assumed she and Alex were forced apart.

But the truth—the quiet, beautiful truth—was that they had found their way back to each other more deeply than either of them could have imagined.

And in that truth, Jess finally felt ready to breathe again.