The End of the Beginning E-Book

Isabelle Kocher

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

“Why are you here today?”—“My boyfriend wants me to be crazy.” Lis Behrens is 26 years old and sitting across from a therapist because her life no longer unfolds as it should. Because her long-term relationship no longer feels like love, but like a standstill. Because she cannot tell whether something is wrong with her—or with the world around her. To understand who she is today, she must return to where it all began. To the time when her father died, her world shattered—and Henrik, with his green eyes, took a seat beside her. He who made her laugh when everything inside her screamed. He who showed her that happiness is possible even when all seems lost. He who stole her first kiss as a teenager—and to whom her heart still belongs. But what if the past holds not only answers, but also a truth that could change everything?

Leseprobe

The End of the Beginning

For love that once felt

can never be forgotten.

1

“Why are you here today?”

“My boyfriend wants me to be crazy.”

Gray eyes view me silently. Not surprised, not confused. These eyes have already seen everything and they understand everything.

“Why would he want that?”

“Because it would make everything easier if I were crazy. Then it would not be his fault but mine. Then I could be fixed. Then we could go back.”

Hands rest peacefully in front of me. Not impatient, not nervous. These hands are ready to write a new story in their notepad. One like any other.

“And do you think you are crazy?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I believe it. But most of the time I just want it.”

Lips curl in a thoughtful way. These lips are not used to saying much, but choose every word wisely. In times of silence, they look for words that others have lost.

“Then I suppose it is up to us to find out where we draw the line between desire and reality. When do you think this all started?”

A biro is clicked, a book is opened, and I get thrown headfirst into the first chapter.

The End of Loneliness

My alarm always rings too early. Not because I am a morning person who just needs little sleep. Not because I am a morning grouch who needs hours to get up. Not because I am a tech loser who is unable to set an alarm right. My alarm always rings too early to jerk me out of my sleep. It needs to snatch me away from sleep’s warm embrace to ensure I don’t get trapped in its dreams.

I hate dreams. Dreams show our minds what they successfully repress during the day. Dreams show our hearts what they deeply desire, but never get. Dreams show us a world that has no place in real life. Those who dreams less during the night have to forget less during the day.

This is why my alarm rings before I enter dreamland. It rings loud and shrill and obtrusive and I love it for that. It grants me one second of chaos every morning, before my brain connects the dots and explains to me with brutal honesty, who I am, where I am, and why my eyes burn. I am Lis Behrens, I lie in my bed, and I cry myself to sleep every evening.

Mornings are, for me, what Charles Dickens called the best of times and the worst of times. The best moment of chaos followed by the worst moment of remembrance: Your dad is dead. You will never see him again, never speak to him again, never hug him again, never hear his laugh again, never feel his presence again. You are alone. Your dad is dead. With this knowledge I get up, get dressed, leave my room, and give my mom a good-morning-kiss. Your dad is dead. With this knowledge I board the school bus, greet my classmates, laugh about their trivial jokes, and feel empty inside. Your dad is dead. With this knowledge I go to school, fill my head with useless facts about regions at the end of the world, people long before my time, and outdated ways of thinking. Your dad is dead. With this knowledge I swallow down my tasteless lunch, paint a smile on my face, and scratch my arms under my sweater until they bleed. Your dad is dead. With this knowledge I put my headphones on and turn Swiss & Die Andern up full blast to hear other voices scream in my head for once. Your dad is dead. With this knowledge I go shopping, enter conversations, do my homework, pet my dog, meet my friends, brainstorm on how I should kill myself, and act normal towards the outside world. Your dad is dead. With this knowledge I fight through the day, every day. After my alarm wakes me up in the morning, it always happens the same way.

But today it happens differently.

“Is the seat next to you still free?”

A voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up confused and wonder who dares to distract me from my pro-con-list on departing like Anna Karenina.

“Um, of course.” I pull my backpack from the seat next to me to the ground and look puzzled into the sparkling green eyes of a boy my age. The seats behind him are all empty.

“I think we go to the same school: Astrid Lindgren High School? I’m in year eight, but I think you are one year below me, right?” He is beaming at me.

Why is he talking to me? “Yes exactly, I’m in 7B.” Why am I answering him?

“Oh no! That means Mr. Ott is your class teacher, isn’t he? A friend of mine is in 7A and thanks God every day for that. Mr. Ott is the absolute worst.” He quickly rolls his eyes and then looks straight back into mine. His gaze is so easy, so free. I wonder how he views the world… how he views me. I adjust my sweater, tuck my hair behind my ear, and try to copy his casual manner. Fake.

“Absolutely! He had two classes taken away from him already, because the parents complained about him to the principal. We are his last class, which is why we’ll probably never manage to get rid of him. Without us he will lose his right to exist as a teacher so he is bound to us and we are bound to him.”

I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the thought of Mr. Ott. He is living proof that even the most brilliant mind cannot compensate a complete lack of social skills.

“Oh, that’s tough!” He looks at me sympathetically. “I would love to share Ms. Scholl with you, so she can counter Mr. Ott with her joy for life. She is my class teacher and the best teacher in our school.”

“I wouldn’t want that. No one can endure the pessimism of Mr. Ott in the long run. His bitterness would kill her happiness eventually.” I never talked this much to a stranger on the bus.

The mysterious green-eyed boy laughs at me. “That’s true. I wouldn’t want that for Ms. Scholl either. Well, then I guess someone else has to bring happiness into your school life. I’ll see you in the schoolyard at lunch break!” He winks at me, grabs his backpack, and jumps off the bus.

I look after him completely perplexed.

What was that? And what did he mean by at lunch break?

I almost forget to get off the bus before it drives off to the next school. Then again, maybe that would have been a smart move—new school, new schoolyard. But for some reason I do want to see the boy with the green eyes again. Anna Karenina can wait.

*

The rain lashes against my window, the tears against my face. I sit underneath my bedroom desk, because I want to crawl into a dark black hole in the ground. The spot under my desk is as close as it gets. To fit in, I sit with my knees up at my ears and my head pressed to the side wall of my desk. I silently scream into the emptiness of my room, cling my arms around my chest to hold my heart together, and scratch the skin of my shins. Red nails dig into soft flesh to look for a more tangible pain that did not originate in my soul. Blood drops sprinkle my skin. Salt drips out of my eyes. Quietness tears the noise in my head apart.

My phone vibrates.

I turn my head away and ignore it. My dad is dead. Today, yesterday, and tomorrow. He could not have sent this message, so who cares?

I close my eyes and imagine the arms around me are not mine but my dad’s. He pulls me tight in a loving hug. Warm and strong and protective. A hug that makes me forget my solitude. A hug that shields me from the world. A hug that tells me: You are not alone, I am always there for you. I take his scent in and lean back in his arms. I smell his old cologne. He always used it to cover the smell of the restaurant he worked in as a chef, but if you smell closely, you can still find your favorite treats on him. I smell Drakkar Noir and pancakes and think: You are here, you are with me.

My phone vibrates.

I open my eyes and he is gone. Annoyed by reality, I reach for my phone. Two unread messages. I wipe away my tears and open them.

Unknown, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:14

I hate rain. Rain means the schoolyard is closed during lunch break.

Unknown, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:16

Paul’s Slime hung to our ceiling for three weeks now. Today it decided to come off and land straight on Ben’s exam papers. He was so shocked that he almost fell off his chair. Mr. Zimmer thought Ben was cheating and wanted to fail him, but then figured out the real reason for this spectacle. But as the Slime was now firmly stuck to Ben’s paper, he had to get a new exam and start all over. That’s what I wanted to tell you during lunch break to cheer you up. Shame we didn’t see each other. Are you still going to save me a seat on the bus tomorrow?

What the…? I stare speechless at my phone. Where did he get my number from? And more importantly: Why is he texting me?

Lis Behrens, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:21

Who is this?

Unknown, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:22

Ouch, that hurts. Guess I didn’t leave an impression then. I am the boy who sat with you on the bus today.

Lis Behrens, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:27

Where did you get my number from?

Unknown, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:29

I hacked into the school’s mailing list and sent a message to all girls. I’m having the same conversation with 300 other girls and potentially 20 other boys with unisex names from the Astrid Lindgren High School at the moment. If you are the girl from the school bus with the Tolstoy novel on her lap, please answer with: Anna

One point for creativity and one point for not being illiterate. Compared to most of the other boys my age, that puts him in the lead by two points. It is a sad world we live in. Maybe I should not be too hard on him and play along. Let’s see if he can win a third point for his knowledge on Tolstoy—or for his ability to skim a Sparknotes entry.

Lis Behrens, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:34

Alexei?

Unknown, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:35

Hi Anna :) How was your day today?

Lis Behrens, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:40

Surprisingly eventful. My train to St. Petersburg got canceled, the farmers in our village are planning a revolution, my sister got married off to the prince, and a boy sat down with me on the school bus, who then revealed himself as my stalker shortly after.

Lis Behrens, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:41

And yours?

Unknown, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:43

Surprisingly uneventful. I met a girl that I would love to see again, but then we couldn’t go outside during lunch break and I didn’t find her on the bus back home. After I tried the Prince Charming tactic and contacted all girls from her school in search of the one and only, she called me a stalker.

He could not find me on the bus back home, because I had to stay longer in school. While a double period of French is reason enough to bang one’s head against the wall, some brilliant mind decided to hold the lessons in the afternoon. This is how you guarantee that even the biggest nerds lose interest in studying. And this is how you prevent a girl with a penchant for Russian authors from meeting a boy with sparkling green eyes on the bus back home again.

Lis Behrens, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:48

A true stalker wouldn’t give up because of that.

Unknown, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:48

Correct! I’ll see you tomorrow on the bus! :) Bye Anna!

Absolutely insane. This is probably the best conversation I had today. With a person who does not even know my name. He will probably turn out to be a psychopath, who has been spying on me for months, has a weird fetish, and poses a threat to me and my family. I should probably not answer him.

Lis Behrens, Monday, June 19, 2006—16:50

If I don’t jump in front of it (: Bye Alexei!

*

I am sitting in the school bus, an open book on my lap. For the past ten minutes, I have been staring at the same exact page, but still have not read a single word on it. I look at the words of Tolstoy, but I only see the boy with the green eyes. Where is he?

I am racking my brain over the question of which stop he got on yesterday, but I just cannot remember. Was it this bus stop or the next? And why is this so important to me? I will see him soon enough. If he comes. If he did not change his mind. Maybe he decided to take an earlier bus, because he does not want to see me again? Or he enters the bus through the back to avoid my seat?

Annoyed at myself, I flip the page in my book back. If that is the case, I will not lose sleep over it. I do not know this boy anyway! If I will never see him again, that is fine by me as well. I try to focus on my book again, “He bent down over her hand and started to kiss it, trying to hide the anxiety which he knew had no foundation, but which he could not overcome.”

“Hi Anna. Can I sit down?” Sparkling green eyes beam at me.

“Alexei would not ask, he would just sit down,” I answer with a smile while pulling down my backpack from the seat next to me, so he can take it.

“To be honest, I never really liked Alexei. Hi, I am Henrik, your stalker.” He offers me his hand with a big smile on his face.

“Hi, I am Lis,” I shake his hand.

“I know, Hannah told me. She’s my friend from 7A. I got your number from her.”

Hannah. Hannah? Of course, Jule’s friend! I have seen her occasionally before. She is not really my friend, but my best friend Jule’s. I guess we must have exchanged numbers at some point as well.

“So, you are not Prince Charming after all, who went through the trouble of texting every girl in school just to find me?”

“Nope, but also not a stalker!” He gives me a huge smile before he suddenly turns serious. “But if you don’t want me to text you, you can delete your number from my phone again.” He hands me his phone and looks at me questioningly.

The display shows my number and the name ‘Lis Karenina’.

I reach for his phone and replace the name with ‘Lis Behrens’.

While giving him back his phone, I explain, “To be honest, I don’t like Alexei either—but I like Anna even less.”

His frown disappears and his face relaxes again into a soothing smile.

When he takes his phone out of my hand, our fingers meet for a second and something mysterious happens: I laugh. I laugh because I just have to laugh as I look into Henrik’s beautiful green eyes. And there it is: One second of chaos that makes me forget my solitude. One second that shows me happiness again. One second. And then another one.

2

“Why do you call your story the end of your loneliness?”

I am not sure what she is asking. I look up from my blue nails into the gray eyes in front of me, a question mark on my forehead.

“Why don’t you call it the beginning of your love story?” So that is what she is asking. I almost wish to see a smile behind her narrow lips, a sign of triumph to come up with this question. But, of course, her face remains unreadable.

I try to think less about her thoughts and focus on my own. Against my will. I would love to change seats now. Listening to another person exploring the darkest abyss of their soul instead of enduring it myself.

“I think because that was more important for me back then. I was not looking for a love story. I was not looking for a boyfriend. What I really needed back then was someone who stood by my side so I wouldn’t be alone anymore.” I swallow. I was really hitting rock bottom back then. Even more than today. Maybe less crazy, but definitely more depressed.

“Why did you feel so lonesome?”

Is the reason ‘because my dad just passed away’ not good enough? I will try it.

No, apparently not. She does not respond at all, does not ask another question, does not take notes. She just keeps looking at me with these deep, gloomy eyes. All right.

“My dad passed away when I was nine years old. Obviously, that was years before I met Henrik. Obviously, that time should have been enough to somehow deal with his death. But I felt worse than ever. Maybe because I was only nine years old when it happened, way too young to understand any of it. And since I understood very little, I repressed a lot.”

Until my hormones flushed everything out again and provided fertile ground for the chaos of my untamed teenager emotions. I shake my head sorrowfully.

Silence. Gray eyes quietly encourage me to continue. They might be wondering ‘But what about your mom?’. So I answer them.

“Of course, my mom tried to be there for me. But as a child I was too much of a daddy’s girl and as a teenager I was too much of a teenager.” Thinking back to my overemotional past-me, I have to roll my eyes. “I was the spitting image of a pubescent who truly believed that their parents could never understand them. Today I know that possibly no one will ever understand better than my mom. But back then my mom was my mother, my brother was already living somewhere else, my friends were part of their own picture-book family, and I was a permanent guest in my fortress of solitude.”

“And then Henrik appeared.” A question and a conclusion, both at once.

“And then Henrik appeared,” I confirm. At the thought of this I get hot and cold at the same time. Small hairs rise on my arms, salt water wets my eyes, fingers lock themselves in each other.

Because then, Henrik appeared, and my love story began.

(Not) A Love Story

“What are you doing after school today?” Henrik naturally takes the seat next to me on the bus. I naturally pull my backpack aside to make room for him and smile.

‘Putting my headphones on, opening my book, and then staring at my phone until you text me’, I think. But I decide on a more nonchalant answer, “Oh, nothing special: Doing my homework, walking my dog, maybe meeting up with Jule.”

“What do you think about doing your homework on the bus tomorrow, just letting your dog out in the garden, and meeting up with me instead? We could go to the fair?”

‘Yes! Yes! Yes! And a million times more: Yes!’ is what I want to cheer into the world. Even if Kurt Cobain himself rose from the dead wanting to have a private jam session with me, I would ditch him for this. Because this means that my daily time with Henrik will not be limited to a twenty-minute bus ride to school and the occasional small chat in the schoolyard. This means we would spend the whole afternoon together! I am flying straight to cloud nine.

“Yeah, sounds good,” I answer casually and try to hide the euphoric explosion inside me. I guess I don’t entirely succeed since Henrik smiles mischievously at me before he changes topics and starts a more harmless conversation about the unbearable lightness of being. Or something else. Nothing can reach me as my mind is filled with only one thought: Our first date! I can barely wait.

*

Henrik is at my bus stop. Henrik is never at my bus stop. He usually gets on five stops after me. I am certain of this, because I rather count them every morning than do my homework.

“Hi,” he says grinning at me.

“Hi,” I say as well, very confused, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh, excuse me, I was under the impression we agreed on a date? Were you expecting someone else?”

“Yes—I mean no—I mean, what are you doing here? I mean, right here? This is not even your bus stop,” I stammer. Great, I waited a full ten seconds until I completely embarrassed myself. It can only go uphill from here.

“No, but it is yours,” he says, still grinning at me. “Call me a chauvinist, but I thought it was customary for the man to pick up the woman on their first date.”

I am still confused. How does he know where my bus stop is? I am always on the bus long before him. There is no way he could have just guessed where I get on.

“Judging by your look, I probably should have picked you up at your doorstep. I thought the bus stop might be more innocuous, but if you want the full program, I will shoot you a bouquet of flowers later, buy you a gingerbread heart, and hold the bus door open for you. He imitates a small bow, points behind me, and says, “After you, my lady.”

A steel elephant on wheels that used to trample so noisily through our street that the panes in our windows clanked, managed to silently sneak up on me. The doors are already open and the bus driver looks very annoyed by my dilly-dallying.

“On or off?” he snaps.

Off to a new adventure I think, then gracefully offer my hand to Henrik and stride with him towards our journey together.

*

The air smells like burned sugar, the rides around us shine in flashy colors, and one can hardly hear their own words over the raucous roller coaster screams, the carousel announcements, and the noisy pop music everywhere. I am in my happy place.

“What?” I ask Henrik once more. I know exactly what he just said but I want him to come closer to me. My plan works.

“Where do you want to go first?” he asks again. Right next to my ear. He smells wonderful.

“Let’s walk around once first,” I suggest.

“Sure,” he laughs, “let’s see what’s new this year.”

Of course, nothing is new. Nothing is ever new here. Every year the same roller coaster alternates with the same white-water ride as main attraction. There is hardly ever a new attraction, yet we always walk around once first. For two reasons: First, pocket money is very limited and therefore requires careful planning, budgeting, evaluation of the annual attractions, and crafting a mental priority list. Second, the fair is so small that you can easily see and do everything within an hour. In order to not return back home straight away, one needs to learn the art of killing time. So we walk our laps.

“What are your top three rides?” I ask Henrik as we happily stroll through the crowd of hyperactive children and their desperate parents. I love rankings.

“My top three rides now and always? Without compromising? Just off the top of my head?” Henrik teases me.

“You got it. And even though you had no time to prepare for this crucial assignment, I will judge you forever on it.”

“Pretty tough. It almost forces me to lie and pick all-time favorites like Breakdance, bumper cars, and Ferris wheels.”

I shake my head. “You can’t. Honesty earns you extra points and only with them can you request a retake if you fail the test. The follow-up exam will focus on your top three fair sweets.” I think: Chocolate fruits, roasted almonds, and Haribo smurfs—and try not to see Henrik’s eyes as two green grapes with a chocolate core. Maybe I should direct this walk to the sweet fruits.

“Um, well, to be honest, I don’t think I have a particular favorite.”

Oh no. If he answers beer tent now, this will be a very long afternoon.

He bashfully scratches his head and then confesses, “I’m a classic roller coaster fanboy. The higher, faster, and more reckless, the better. If you add a catapult start, some loops, and as much airtime as possible you won’t get me off that ride again.” He smiles apologetically at me. For no reason.

“Perfect, I love roller coasters as well!”

“You do?” he asks, a bit too surprised.

“Absolutely! I could not agree with you more. I love roller coasters and amusement parks.

Henrik still looks puzzled but clearly excited now.

“But they still don’t make it into my top three,” I admit.

“Oh really?” he asks.

“Nope. My top three are chairoplanes, swingboats, and those merry-go-rounds that spin really fast in a circle, but no one knows their name.”

“Why them?” Henrik grins at me.

“Swingboats because I used to envy anyone who was able to go on them. Before I discovered travel sickness pills, I couldn’t even go on bumper cars without feeling nauseous, let alone the final boss: Swingboats. And chairoplanes because this is as close as one gets to understanding what it really feels like to fly—especially if you close your eyes.” I spread my arms like a bird, close my eyes, and run a few steps ahead, giggling.

“And why the nameless merry-go-rounds?” Henrik asks as he catches up with me.

Because I used to go on them with my dad. Two in one wagon. Him sitting outside, me sitting inside in his big arms. As soon as the ride began, the wagon flew over the wave platform and the centrifugal force pushed the passengers together. Admittedly, a very uncomfortable ride for the one sitting outside being pushed against a handlebar which tried to impress itself as an artful bruise on one’s skin. But simultaneously a very comfortable ride for me, sitting inside, getting pushed against the chest of my dad while his arms protectively embraced me. It was beautiful. I loved these moments.

“Oh, I actually don’t know. I just always go on them. It’s my fair tradition.” I shrug and then add with a wink, “Besides, you never know if they’ll do a bonus reverse round at the end. You are entirely at the mercy of the showman. That’s my kind of adrenaline rush.”

“Okay then, let’s go.” Henrik takes my hand and pulls me with him.

“What? Where to?” I ask perplexed while stumbling after him. My hand in his. Henrik holds my hand.

“Sadly, they don’t have swingboats here and to be honest, I’m a bit afraid of chairoplanes, but I think this is the nameless merry-go-round you were talking about?” He stops and points at the ride in front of us.

“You’re afraid of chairoplanes?” I try to control my facial features while asking this. I don’t want to laugh at him, but the thought is just so surreal. My lip slightly twitches up.

“Somewhat.” He shrugs and tries to change the topic.

“Really?” I dig deeper, not ready to let go of this quite yet, “Mister ‘the higher, faster, and more reckless, the better’?” This is my return for him being too surprised about a girl liking risky roller coasters.

He moans, slightly annoyed. “That’s not the same. Roller coasters are completely different with every turn. If there is a risky moment in-between, it is gone in a split second and you are not forced to relive it over and over and over again. While in chairoplanes you are trapped in a permanent loop of danger. With barely any means of protection, you are sitting on a wire chair, dangling from two thin iron chains. The only thing you can do for the next five minutes is wondering when these chains are going to break.” He convulses at this thought.

I cannot hide my grin any longer. Henrik is actually afraid of a kid’s ride. I almost want to poke his nose because he looks so adorable right now, but then I decide to tease him instead, “So you really are afraid of chairoplanes.”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m afraid of chairoplanes,” he tries to avert embarrassment. “I guess, I’m just not quite ready to die yet.” He looks back at me and takes my hand. “Especially not today. Shall we?” He nods towards the nameless merry-go-round.

“Absolutely,” I reply, beaming.

We fight our way through the flood of little tots and their parental wallets, pay for our tickets, and enter the ride with no name. Henrik lets me choose the color of our wagon, so I go straight to a green one and sit down. He is sitting outside, I am sitting inside.

“Oh, Lis?” he asks me reluctantly before the ride begins.

“Yes?” I look up at him dreamily. The air around us sizzles. The nameless merry-go-round has not started spinning yet, but my world already has. Henrik is so close to me. I almost want to rest my head on his shoulder, but then I cannot look into his green eyes anymore. He seems to be nervous. I wonder what he wants to ask me.

“This time you did take your travel sickness pill, didn’t you?”

I crack up as our romance comes to an unexpected end, “Yes, of course!”

His poker face dissolves and he laughs as well.

“Good,” he replies. Then he puts his arm around me and the ride begins.

*

“Okay, what was your fair highlight this year?” Henrik asks me next.

We are walking home from my bus stop. With detours—I do not want this day to end.

I pretend to smell the fake flowers of my bouquet and answer, “The lovely flowers that unknown gentleman next to you won for me at the shooting range.”

“Of course, he was really carried away with you. A bit bold to give flowers to a girl who is clearly in the company of someone else, but well, at least he tried.”

“He was just feeling sorry for you!” I laugh and softly punch him in his shoulder. “He was in his mid-seventies and clearly not interested in me.”

“Sorry for me? Why should he have felt sorry for me? I was the one with the girl on my arm.” He beams at me. I beam back.

“He probably saw you more as the guy who did not manage to shoot his girl some flowers,” I argue.

“Well, this is how I see it: Another guy lost his money on the shooting gallery for a girl who then went home with me. If anyone should feel sorry for the other one, it is me.” He winks at me. Then he laughs and says, “My fair highlight was watching you nibbling off the sides of your chocolate banana! I have never seen someone eat it like that.”

“It is the only way to eat a chocolate banana! If you bite it off from the top, you are facing the spiky pike. Anyone bumping into you from behind at that moment will cause you to pierce your throat.” I shake my head in complaint while Henrik laughs even more at me.

He leaves me no choice.

“And here I thought your fair highlight was the little boy throwing up next to you on the roller coaster.”

He freezes.

“I thought we agreed to never speak about this again?” He shrugs in disgust.

“But it was pink! I have to talk about it! I never saw someone throwing up in pink!”

“The result of a laissez-faire parenting style. This is what happens when you just cannot say ‘no’ to your child even if he asks for cotton candy again and again.”

Henrik still pulls a face thinking back to that moment, so I decide to drop the topic.

“What a crazy world we are living in,” I end the conversation.

“What’s crazy is that you apparently managed to get lost in your own neighborhood. These trees have engraved themselves more into my memory than my rosy roller coaster ride.” His face has its smirk back.

“Oh true.” I stop in surprise at my house. I am not surprised by the sight of my house. Of course, I know where my house is and I did not get lost in my own neighborhood. I am surprised because Henrik noticed. I thought I was particularly clever at sneaking around my own house through various little alleys and junctions in order to buy me more time. Apparently not.

“Okay, great. Well, thanks for the lovely day and um the flowers then,” I try to make a casual joke and laugh, but Henrik is not laughing. He is not saying anything. He just looks at me. Seconds turn into hours and then burn out into a fleeting moment. I feel like I am back at my bus stop, mumbling nervously, while Henrik is all calm. The world becomes blurry while I look up to him and everything behind him fades into oblivion.

“All right then, well, catch you tomorrow on the bus. See you. And thanks again. Get home safe.” Get home safe? I give myself a mental slap in the face. Brilliant. I managed to end this date just as awkwardly as I started it. I fumble with the knob behind me, open the garden door, and try to walk through the gate—when my feet suddenly change direction and walk the opposite way. Not because of my lack of coordination, but because of Henrik’s hand, which caught mine and is now gently pulling me back towards him.

Everything is quiet this time. No roller coaster screams, no carousel announcements, no pop music at full volume. Just the two of us. His breath softly touching my skin. My heart irregularly thumping in my chest. And then his voice smoothly whispering in my ear, “My fair highlight was that you were there.”

His lips find mine and our world explodes. We are back at the fair. Everything around us is vibrating, sparkling, and spinning. I taste love in my heart and chocolate fruits on my lips.

My first kiss with Henrik.

My first kiss.

3

“Why did you get together with Henrik?”

Interesting question. I actually never had to ask myself that. For me it was love at first sight when I looked into his deep green eyes.

“He was just everything I didn’t even know I wanted. He was loving, smart, funny, confident, handsome, exciting, … and for some reason in love with me. I chuckle at the memory of our newly-in-love teen versions.

“Was that so unusual?” the second question follows directly.

“I don’t know,” I ponder. “Confidence was not really my strong suit back then. I was definitely not unpopular in my class, but I could not have admitted to myself that some boys liked me. And I was just too caught up in my sadness back then. I did not believe anything or anyone could change that— so why even try?”

“But you tried with Henrik.”

“Well, I guess he was just too persistent.” A smile illuminates my face when I think back to all the times Henrik squeezed next to me on the bus, purposefully bumped into me in the schoolyard, and sent me dozens of text messages after school. “For some reason he was interested in me and then went out of his way to bring us together. Not that he needed much persuasion. I liked him from the start. I think the only problem was my fear of opening up to someone. Of course, I also feared being alone, but at least I was familiar with this fear. It has been my companion for years.”

“Seems like you feared a lot back then.”

“True. My fear and I were very close.”

“Were?”

“Were,” I hesitantly admit. I think today I only fear not being fearful anymore, if that makes any sense. Some say the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. But the opposite is true for me: Fear has been my everlasting shadow for so long that it feels strange not to see it around anymore. I think I fear I have lost my fear.” I nervously tug my sleeves and look to the side. I almost expect to see a reincarnation of my fear sitting there, waiting for me. It looks at me with big, hollow eyes and softly pats my hand as if it wants to say: ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m right here. I am always here. And I can stay as long as you want.’

“Why do you think your fear not being fearful anymore? Is it not desirable to be freed of one’s fear?”

She looks at me attentively. I look at my fear sadly. My fear looks frantically at the wedding ring on its finger. Twists it around, clings to it, presses it to its heart. Looks up to me with big, pleading eyes.

“I don’t know why I got together with Henrik,” I contemplate while eying my fear. “But I know why I stayed together with him.” Then I look straight to her and confess, “Because it was my biggest fear that he would leave me one day and I would be alone again.”

Together Alone

Our pains are strange. Sometimes they are loud and shrill and close. They scream at us, jump at us, push themselves into the center of attention. They corrode our face, bite off our skin, tear apart our distance. One look at our gaping wound is enough to understand the pains we endure.

But sometimes pains are quiet. Deeply sunken in our soul, they lurk under the surface, waiting to be washed ashore one by one. Only at low tide one can see how furrowed the seabed truly is. But the next wave will quickly come to bury its sight and wash away the memory of what was just exposed. The sea itself knows how sick it is, but the tourists only see a lonesome plastic bottle washed up on the beach from time to time.

Today is a full moon with a particularly strong tide washing up long-forgotten shipwrecks on the beach.

Here is the rudder my dad used every Sunday morning to direct us to the best flea markets, where we found our treasures: A Pumuckl tape for me, a Super Mario game for my brother, and an Elvis record for my dad. I would sit in the front of the car, singing along to the radio, excitedly babbling to my dad. My brother would be dozing off in the back, dreaming of his duvet, cursing his dad-alarm that woke him up at five in the morning to drag him along to some jumble sale.

Here is the sail my dad used to take us to safe havens. When I was afraid to jump into the swimming pool, he would slowly let me down on my arms. When I forgot my teddy bear at a friend’s place, he would drive the fifty miles back to fetch it without a comment. When I fell asleep on the couch, he would carry me to my room so I could wake up in my own bed the next morning.

And here is the oar that always brought us back to my dad with a few strong pulls. When the sun was shining, we would jovially paddle with it to the kitchen, where my dad would be building a pancake-mountain big enough to even make Petzi jealous. When the weather was bad, we would row with it to my dad’s new apartment that he had after he moved out of our home. And while the storm raged, we fought our way with it to the hospital, where my dad was tied to a white bed with gloomy tubes. Until the oar broke.

I hold its remains in my hands and know that they can no longer carry me away from my lonely island. Its splinters pierce my skin and bring tears to my eyes. With every tear a memory leaks out of me, runs hot down my cheek, and dissolves into my pillow. There one second, gone the next. And with every tear I lose, I am a little bit more alone.

The doorbell rings.

Damnit.

I close my eyes, hold my breath and count to three. Then I breathe in, wipe away my tears and crawl out from under my desk. I look at my face in the mirror. No visible change. I guess that is the good thing about naturally having a sad face—it looks the same before and after crying. I undo my slightly tousled braid, run my fingers through my hair, and open the door.

“Am I interrupting?” asks a contrite voice on the other side.

“Never,” I answer and give Henrik a kiss.

A cheerless smile flits across his face and disappears again. His cheeks are red, his eyes even more. Strange. It almost looks as if he was the one who was just crying.

“Is everything alright?” I therefore ask, concerned.

He walks past me into my room and drops down to my bed. I follow him and close my door. No one is home except for us, but it feels like a moment when closed doors offer safety.

Henrik lies on his back, holds his face in his hands, and breathes heavily.

“I hate my father,” he moans.

I sit down next to him and put my hand on his arm.

“What did he do?” I ask, gently.

‘What did he do now?’ is what I should ask though. Clashes between Henrik and his father are nothing new. Not all that surprising when you have on the one side a choleric authority figure who leads with a strict hand and compromises on nothing—and on the other side a teenager who is just discovering his free will and sympathizing with the Sturm und Drang phase. A recipe for disaster.

“He just explained to me that I will have to work the entire week after school. Apparently, there was a large order that he can’t do by himself so I have to jump in.”

“Well, if he can’t do it by himself, it seems fair that he asks you for help doesn’t it? And a chance for you to earn some money on the side.”

I try to cheer Henrik up, but he immediately interrupts, “But he didn’t ask me! That’s exactly the problem: He never asks! He commands. He gives orders. Everyone has to dance to his tune. He has known about this order for weeks, but he didn’t feel the need to tell me earlier or coordinate with me. Because it is out of the question that I might not have time. What he says always comes first. He doesn’t care that I am taking an important math exam next week. He doesn’t care that my scooter is scheduled for maintenance tomorrow in the repair shop. He doesn’t care that it is fucking summer and I might want to spend an afternoon with my friends at the lake, too!” He shakes my hand off, jumps to his feet, and paces the room back and forth in anger. His fingers alternately run through his hair and clench back into a fist. How unusual. Henrik is probably the most balanced person I know. I can count the number of times I have seen him angry on one hand.

“But Henrik, you never had to study for a math exam, you can probably still bring your scooter to the repair shop, and it is supposed to rain this week anyway.” I try to defuse the situation once more. “Let’s just go to the lake next week when it will be sunny again.”

I try to take his hand, but he pulls it away and looks to the side.

Then he quietly says, “He doesn’t care about the reading on Thursday either.”

No. Suddenly, the last piece of the puzzle falls into place, and I understand why Henrik is so upset. I am immediately on fire.

“But he can’t do that, we arranged it weeks ago!”

“He doesn’t care.”

“But didn’t you tell him we had plans? We have already bought the tickets!”

“Of course I did, but he only cares about his own plans.”

“But this is not something we came up with last minute. It’s pre-arranged. It’s nothing we can postpone!”

“I know that, but he doesn’t understand it. Nothing is important to him but his own business.”

“But you asked him before we booked the seats? We can’t return the tickets anymore!”

“Of course I did, Lis!” Henrik becomes louder again, so I become quieter again. It is not him I want to attack, I am just so angry as well. Angry with his father, never with Henrik.

“I asked him before we booked the seats and reminded him at every occasion that I need the day off. But he simply doesn’t care. He always puts business before pleasure and while I am living under his roof, the same counts for me!” The words of his father in Henrik’s mouth. I see a riot of emotions fighting inside him: Hate, anger, self-doubt, fear, rebellion, and guilt. The least I can do is free him from one of these. I swallow my anger and try forgiveness.

“It’s fine. I can also go with my mom. You don’t really care for his books anyway and would have just come for me. So you are not missing out on anything. And I can still go. My mom will buy the ticket off you, so no one loses.”

“It is not fine! I don’t know his books, but I do want to know them! You haven’t spoken of anything else for weeks and I want to go there for you! I want us to experience this together.” He tenderly looks into my eyes and I forget all about my anger. Love puts it in its place and shoots the bolt. Suddenly it does not matter anymore that we will not go to the reading together, because we will go through life together. Everything is secondary as long as Henrik is here with me. How strange to feel so much love for a person and not be able to express it—while my rage might have burned out, Henrik’s is still ablaze.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---