She got inspired by my writing.
So she started writing too.
She’s been writing for hours — fully immersed — for a writing competition. A contest she plans to win. And honestly, she probably will.
But in this house, we don’t really talk about winning.
We don’t hold expectations like that.
We do things for the sake of being alive.
For the sake of feeling something move.
She disappeared into her words, while I cleaned a bit around the house. Then I went outside, into the −11 degrees, to buy a red bottle of wine for our dinner tonight.
Berlin cold. The kind that clears your head.
I came back home, opened the bottle, poured her a glass, kissed her softly, and started dinner.
I’m struggling in this kitchen.
It’s not mine. And I always need time to learn a new kitchen — new rhythms, new movements.
This one makes me slower. Clumsier. I keep doing things left-handed when I shouldn’t, bumping into corners, feeling slightly out of sync.
Still, I cooked.
Slowly.
With wine.
We were supposed to go pick up a bike later, so we could have two here in Berlin and avoid public transportation. Nothing against it — we’re just not big fans. We like moving ourselves.
She kept writing. Writing. Writing.
Then stopping, turning to me, reading the new parts out loud, asking what I felt.
I kept trying to pull her away from the table and into the kitchen, hoping she would help me navigate my confusion and get dinner done before we had to leave.
It didn’t really work.
She finally came into the kitchen, but only to sit down.
She took a blank white paper.
And suddenly, she started structuring her piece. Turning it into something more narrative. More intentional.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Almost an hour.
Standing between the stove and the table — talking about structure, about rhythm, about how to walk the reader in without forcing them. About when to slow down. When to cut. When to trust silence.
About feelings, and how not to explain them too much.
We talked about honesty.
About rawness.
About letting a story breathe.
She’s an amazing writer.
And when she tells me that I inspire her — that I’m her favourite writer — something opens inside me. Not ego. Something warmer. Something shared.
It makes us both grow.
At some point, I put on some Christmas songs.
Nothing loud. Just soft, in the background.
And without deciding it, we started dancing. Slowly.
Still talking. Still thinking. Still half inside the story.
We danced between the stove and the table, glasses of wine in our hands, words floating around us.
For almost an hour, time stopped being linear.
Two people.
Two writers.
Almost novelists.
Trying to turn real life into something that could touch other hearts — without losing its truth.
It was her story.
A rich one. Twisted. Deep.
Full of meaning and transitions.
I didn’t write it for her.
I just helped her hear her own voice more clearly.
Helped her trust it.
And I felt lucky.
Oh, Berlin.
Then it was time to pick up the bike.
We turned off the oven.
Dinner had to wait.
We went back outside, into the cold again.
Met the guy. Tried the bike. Bought it. Rode it back.
It’s a great bike.
I already know I’ll love cycling together tomorrow — after the rave — to a German sauna.
Yes, the naked kind.
Be human.
Exist.
Nothing else.
Berlin makes me feel human in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
Danish culture is raw and honest too — but Berlin strips even more layers away.
You need to live here a bit to understand it.
To let the city take care of you.
To stop explaining yourself.
So yes — dinner waiting, writing everywhere, deep conversations, raves, naked saunas, frozen windows.
I mean… I’m walking inside my dream.
We have the Italian home waiting for us anytime.
A cuisine that never lets you stop eating.
Maybe just pause for a coffee — so you can continue after.
Sometimes I feel like I’m fantasising my own life.
And then I realise: no.
This is it.
We’re still not ready to leave the house.
Dinner is half-finished.
The music is still playing softly.
The night hasn’t started yet.
There’s something precious about this moment —
when nothing is demanded,
when no one is watching,
when the world hasn’t asked us to show up.
Soon, we’ll put on our coats and step outside.
Soon, the noise will come.
But for now, we’re here.
Between the stove and the table.
Between words and movement.
And that feels like enough.
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