Martijn Winkel

I slowly fade into you, and it’s strange that you don’t see or feel this. I roll myself out like a pure white sheet over this rugged landscape. But sharp rocks hold me back, and I tear through my folds. The sun is directly ahead of me on the horizon, wrapped in a gray mist. Because of this, the meadows seem to be waking up under a veil of damp dew. The twilight is bright enough to light my path. Nettles sting my toes, heels, ankles, and legs—from red, itchy spots to irritated marks. The landscape changes me, and I cannot help but want to add myself to its collection. Thorn bushes prick small holes in my legs to create flowers that instantly bloom. Here I wander, through the realm between life and death. I don’t belong here, but I still walk on firmly. I have long since passed the sensation of feeling pain. I’ve fallen too hard for you, and now I find myself in a mirrored world.

My goal here is to keep moving forward to visit the empress. She wants an audience with the person who has caused all the recent problems in this land. Not showing up would be quite rude. Although rudeness should be the least of my worries right now. I have been nothing but rude lately, and I’ve taken everything my heart desired. But there’s still hope—maybe she can save the last fragments of my soul before I lose those completely too. Perhaps that’s her fear as well: that I lose myself entirely in this process, becoming so bitter that no one will ever get close to me again. No one but you.

Haggard and scattered, I eventually arrive at the palace doors. This was probably once a sight to behold in another era, but in its current state, it has become a sad sight. I buy a ticket at the tourist counter at the entrance because, apparently, even with an appointment, you can’t get in here for free. I don’t think my small contribution will save the decay of this palace, but they say every little bit helps. Two muscular, half-naked guards are waiting for me at the top of the stairs. Typical—even in a dream state, I can’t escape the circuit party boys from your fantasies. I show them my ticket, and they groan as they open the huge doors. It sounds like they’ve been training their arms today, or they’ve had a very long night. Or maybe both. I hope they haven’t strained their muscles with that last effort, but nothing surprises me at this point.

I walk through a long hall and eventually arrive in the throne room. Most of the ceiling has fallen away in the soundless eye of a raging storm. Apparently, the outcome of this hearing has already been decided before I can take my seat. The empress gestures and opens her mouth to address the crowd, but she is immediately distracted. Her eyes fly from left to right across the large space. She is searching for something or someone, and something feels off. Eventually, she focuses her attention back on me and lets out a deep sigh. Her crown slides a little further down her forehead, which she pushes back up in frustration. Now her crown is just a bit too far back. Even for the empress, it seems to be one of those days.

“You’re here too early, and that’s my fault,” she says eventually. Before I can answer, she makes a spinning motion with her middle and index fingers. The ceiling sucks me up, and in the flash of a second, my forehead slams against your front door—so hard that a small crack appears in the window. I feel my forehead to check for damage, but it doesn’t seem to be bleeding. Reality and my fantasy are overlapping; I no longer know where I truly belong. But I also know that I’ll still be here tomorrow if I don’t press your doorbell. No matter the pace or clothing I wear while climbing these stairs, I always arrive at the top, sweating.

Today, I finally laid it all out. While we were lying together on the couch, I told you that I’m truly in love with you. We’ve had a crush on each other for a while, but I’ve completely fallen for you, and I can’t stop myself anymore. You weren’t surprised, but you didn’t say it back, just as I had somewhat expected. The imbalance in our relationship is palpable. But is it time to break things down and reshape them into something less painful? Maybe I still held out some hope that you’d say it back. The conversation went deeper into being in love, and you revealed that you can’t quite remember the last time you were in love. That only deepens the complexity of the way you love in my mind. We’re so alike and yet so different in our emotions. I live based on feelings, and that is also my downfall. And you live independently and enjoy your freedom—a freedom you don’t want to give up.

You feel very safe and comfortable with me because everything is natural and pressure-free, and you call that quite unique. The freedom we have now, by not giving this thing a name, also gives you a lot of peace. You confirm that we have a connection, and you accidentally call it dating, only to quickly retract it. What we’re doing is also a bit strange. And I notice that I’m falling back into old habits—the jealousy, because I’m not allowed to commit to you, because my heart is not your possession. And you absolutely don’t want that. But why do I feel the need to put it into a box?

You find me more and more likable because I’m in love with you and because I seek contact with you every day. I would love it if someone were so in love with me. I still send you messages day and night; this has been going on for months now. And you find me refreshingly emotionally mature. But am I really, or am I just playing it cool? How long can I keep up this game where I constantly put energy into you and you don’t put any into me? The eternal cat-and-mouse game where we give and take—but where I keep giving more, and you keep giving the same.

Today, I lay in bed with teary eyes, listening to a song, and I shared it with Ryan, a friend who lives on the other side of the world in America. He asked if I was okay—the first person in a while who genuinely asked if everything was alright. And then I let it all go, and he listened intently. About how I’ve fallen in love, and how Ryan can feel my longing through the pieces of text I share on social media. Ryan shared his unfiltered opinion about how things were going between us—how this is an unfair situation that ultimately only hurts me, and already is. He also asked why I stayed with you despite the fact that you clearly haven’t promised me anything, and whether staying with you—because there are also many good parts—is really worth it in the end. How I won’t find anything if I ultimately want more. It is a painful realization that I needed. The pink cloud has long since vanished from the horizon.

Ryan trusts my feelings because when I fall in love, it must be with someone who’s kind to me. But I don’t really have a long history of men who have been good to me, so it’s probably just a pattern. Ryan asks me if it might be wise to take a little distance to gain more perspective on the situation. He thinks I’m in an unfair position with a man who doesn’t treat me the way I deserve—how I throw myself at him with everything I have, and he can’t give me attention for days. He thinks you’re strange and unfair and calls everything I describe unhealthy. It’s something that’s been in the back of my mind for a while, but it feels completely different when someone directly draws that conclusion. I think that, up until now, I didn’t want to give anyone around me the space to have an opinion on this—maybe out of fear, because I wouldn’t like it, because it would be the truth I didn’t want to face.

We could have partied together this weekend, just like that night we met—but for an entire night instead of just a few hours. And of course, without your ex between us. But you rejected my request. Something about “wanting to be free” and being in doubt about whether it would be smart for us to do this together. By “free,” you meant flirting and kissing other men without breaking my heart—and then eventually ending up in bed with them. The message was clear, and I made my own plan. I know by now when I feel like an obligation, an obstacle, so I went to another party with my friends.

You were maybe going to stop by my daytime party, but you didn’t show up in the end. I think I had already suppressed that little glimmer of hope, but I left a door open in case you wanted to surprise me. The difference between you and me—between what I feel and what you don’t feel. After all, it’s in the same city. How long would it take to bike here—half an hour? Do you want to see me or not? The day passed, and I’m already home, hungover, eating pizza while I stare off into space thinking of you. The breakup obviously isn’t helping my emotional state. Contact has temporarily broken off from your side again. I’ll probably hear from you tomorrow, wanting a hug when you wake up hungover—not to mention whether you even wake up in your own bed or someone else’s.

But I don’t bite at your requests because I’m teaching myself to keep some distance from you, so it won’t hurt as much when you finally tell me. Not long after, I get a message from you where you lay it all out, just as expected. You’ve been kissing different handsome guys at the party, and you’re still going. The party might be over, but your day isn’t. You tell me twice in between that I should have just come to your parties because it’s fine when you’re on ecstasy. The element that finally changes your mind is drugs—typical again. I’m also fine on four and a half hours of sleep, in case you want to know how I’m doing. Do you see how confusing this sounds? Inviting me to a party that’s already long over, halfway through the morning.

You’re so irritating, but unfortunately, you have a piece of my heart. You don’t want to lead me on, and you show it in your own way. But the line that ties me to you—I’m the one holding onto it. A line of hope that maybe you’ll still fall for me somewhere. And then I’ll crawl back to you like a dog that’s been waiting for its owner for months, still just as happy and surprised that you came back. They say I should hate you because you’re the one leading me on with my feelings. I only have to say it and pull the plug. But I can’t bring myself to do it, because if we stop everything now, it’ll hurt more than this slow torment.

I’m about to leave for work while you’re still at an afterparty. I find myself once again wondering why you didn’t come to my party in the end, and you say you were too tired—and then used drugs, and suddenly you were able to party. I ask why you suddenly wanted me at your parties, and you admit that you’re too neurotic and that the ecstasy has given those thoughts a peaceful place. I can feel myself reacting more sharply in our conversation. There are hours between your messages, and while you continue to destroy yourself, I’m going back to my daily routine. I’m sober, and you’re on a different planet. Who am I if you can only make space for me when it suits you and when you’re numb enough? The day I met you, alarm bells went off, and now they’re slowly ringing again in my ears. Instead of ignoring them, I’m listening carefully now. How many minutes until the ambulance arrives?

I truly hope you find what you’re looking for in this search of yours. Maybe you’ll find someone you can fall in love with among all those men you connect with. I speak out of jealousy because I can’t do that. I’ve already chosen you—because I can only have fun with one person at a time, and right now, that person is, sadly, you.

The feeling that I’m slowly becoming a nuisance to you creeps up on me like a hitman from the corner of my living room. Unfortunately for him, I see his loafer shoes reflecting in the sun halfway down his chosen path. Come on, you could’ve done better. And let’s be honest—is my time with you already up? Or am I just trying to decipher and fill in all the silence between us? I try not to think too negatively, but I’m also not so naive that I don’t pick up on signals.

Cracks are starting to show, and slowly, personality traits are seeping through that I don’t like. I wonder if you’re currently experiencing the exact same thing with me, because I’m far from perfect either. I stay stuck in things for too long, I’m stubborn, and sometimes I have trouble keeping my focus when it’s really required of me. What made me a bit jealous at first is now slowly turning into a feeling of estrangement from you. There’s a reckless side to you, and once you give in to it, you’re more than happy to share what you’ve done—but I don’t really need to know which strangers have enjoyed your backside. Thank you very much.

This heatwave comes and goes, leaving a trail of heat-allergy blisters across my chest. But there’s no one left to walk this trail. Blisters on my stomach, spreading to my ribs, becoming more prominent against my skin—and from my ribs to my neck. I’m always afraid that one day you’ll leave a hickey there. I once saw a video about internal bleeding, and since then, I get anxious about hickeys. It will eventually get cooler, and everything will disappear. And I’m afraid you’ll leave again too. If it’s not out of disinterest, then it’s probably because I’ve messed things up myself.

I think this weekend was the final straw for me. I know I’m not made in your image, but our differences were also our attraction. A strange goo slowly drips, like dressing, over my feelings for you. I just don’t understand you anymore.