07-10-2025, 01:11 PM
"You really noticed that back then?" We made ourselves comfortable in my small apartment. Outside, it is already dark; after all, it's December—two weeks before Christmas, the festival of love. How fitting. Maybe he didn't really notice, but somehow he sensed it. "Even when you didn't know I was gay?" I'm surprised and fascinated at the same time. Yes, all along, or at least since the beginning of the year.
The beginning of the year! The university party. An incredible evening. By then, I had started to slowly but surely completely fall for him. We had danced for a long time—no, not with each other, but together—and I wished that the party would never end. When it eventually had to come to an end, it got even better. I was there as a helper for the party and had to help with the cleanup a bit. He immediately offered to help without being asked, and we carried beer tables together. Carried? No, the tables and benches actually floated, almost magically, with me on cloud nine.
At some point, much too early for the first subway, we slipped away and ended up on a waiting bench. How I wished I could lean against him and cuddle in his arms back then, but I wasn't able to say anything to him—not yet. That would take almost a year. So he sensed it back then... The way I looked at him, he explained to me.
I can still remember the conversation very clearly. Whether it would be worse to lose hearing or eyesight. What a topic for four in the morning! But somehow, it was just right—at least the right thing to finally enchant me. A very typical conversation for him, as I would later realize. I've never been able to talk so profoundly about seemingly unimportant topics with anyone else. Recently, we pondered whether it would be easier to build a raft or a canoe if stranded on a deserted island.
Yes, that was on that memorable evening eight days ago. We had met at the winter festival in the evening, strolled through the tents with booths, and eventually got stuck in the food tent. At some point, we ended up discussing love, whether I believed in it, he asked me. Admittedly, I am somewhat skeptical about love. Sure, it exists, and life wouldn't be half as beautiful without it, but so far, I've mostly experienced love as something tragic. Love that remains unanswered on one side, relationships that are doomed from the start because one confuses a little affection with true love on the other. At least that's how it has always been for me until now. Now we both sit here in my apartment. I look at him. How beautiful he is!
Objectively, he might not be a dream man, but to me, he is. I like his deep eyes. I like his silky, medium-length hair, his beautiful mouth, with which he says so many intelligent things. He is not as superficial as many others. I believe that primarily it is this that I have fallen so inappropriately in love with him. It’s not superficialities, but rather his character and charm that captivate me.
When we briefly go to the supermarket to get something to eat, he suggests a ready-made lasagna. "I love unhealthy food the most." I have to smile and love him a little more. How could he have enchanted me so? Whatever he says, I am fascinated by it. Even more so, I am fascinated by his silence. "The beautiful thing about us is that we can also just be quiet without everyone desperately searching for something to say. Then, in that moment, it's just right to say nothing." What a simple yet enchanting observation we made last week. Normally, I hate such situations when you've been talking and suddenly no one knows what to say anymore. With him, it's different. We just understand each other; you don't always need words.
Just like now, as we sit across from each other after dinner, each lost in our thoughts. I can't help but look at him dreamily. His eyes, his hair, his mouth. I love him and can't help it. Involuntarily, I have to laugh. "I still can't believe I really did that. I've never done anything like that before." It really was a bold move, but somehow it just had to happen. As sure as I was about my feelings after that evening, I remained unclear about his. Finally, after days, I gathered all my courage and sat down to write him a letter. A real love letter—the first in my life.
"That really made me happy, to receive a proper letter like that." I can't help but grin. – "I also put a lot of effort into it." He grins back. In the most beautiful handwriting I could manage, I had written almost two pages of text on paper, in which I not only confessed my love to him but also explained how I came to have serious hopes. It was important to me; it shouldn't look completely thoughtless. In the end, I was quite satisfied with my work. The next day – the day before yesterday – I invited him to go to the cinema with me and a few other people and handed him the letter as we said goodbye. It's incredible that I managed to get through it without any second thoughts, considering how excited I was all evening.
Then came the anxious waiting. That evening at the winter festival, when we had sat at the table for a long time after dinner and somehow got onto the topic of love, he had asked me in a serious voice if I was looking for something lasting. From that moment on, I couldn't hold back anymore. That question, along with all the other clues, could only mean one thing. There had been an immense tension in the air for the rest of the evening. But then, when I later tried to probe a little, he had, for the first time since I met him, clearly stated that he was heterosexual. That couldn't possibly fit together. Maybe he was just unsure of himself, or perhaps he was just afraid to come out, or maybe I was just piecing together complete nonsense. Anything was possible, and I was waiting to see what he would say.
He understands me, understands my thought processes, can empathize exactly with how I must have felt. "I would have found a short text message simply inappropriate," he explains to me. We agree on that. I had already considered whether I should include my email address in the letter – for some reason, we had never emailed each other despite knowing each other for over a year. I realize that I don't even know his last name. Love doesn't need a name. But it does need an email address to be able to write more than 160 characters. So all I received to read after I finally dared to open his text yesterday, after much hesitation, was the question about that very address.
Again, the waiting. It could mean anything or nothing. A love declaration via text message is tasteless, a rejection via text message is just as bad. Does a rejection via email really have more style? I don't know. After all, I had also confessed my love to him in written form. At least his rejection was the nicest one I could have imagined. "I should probably be disappointed and devastated right now, but I'm not," I wrote back to him, still completely unable to accept what I had just read and simultaneously still completely captivated by him. A text like only he could write. A soulmate connection? Me, in his eyes, a fascinating person? It all sounded so wonderful, even though it actually represented a disaster for me.
In my eyes, he is also a fascinating person, even more so after I read the letter than ever before. I loved him even a little more immediately. He had written that this shouldn't destroy our wonderful friendship; I had already emphasized that in my letter. I reaffirmed it once again in my response and immediately invited him over for the next evening – today – to talk things over a bit. Yes, we want to continue nurturing our friendship; we agree on that. We start right away, playing a bit of chess and cards, chatting, having fun. It would actually be a really nice evening, but I am suffering.
So far, I have only ever known love as something tragic. Love that remains unanswered on one side, relationships that are doomed to fail from the start because one confuses a little affection with true love on the other. At least that has always been the case until now. Now we are both sitting here in my apartment. I look at him. He is incredibly beautiful, and love is something incredibly tragic. Even though I still haven't grasped the tragedy in its full extent, not even when we met today.
As he slowly turns to leave, I feel that the moment of bitter awakening will soon be here – it must be here. I refuse to miss the chance to walk with him to the subway. Just a nice gesture on my part? Certainly that, but not only. Perhaps a train station seems to me the most fitting place for the farewell that is about to happen. The final farewell to my dreams and hopes. I can still delay the moment of this farewell for a few more minutes. Not much, but still. Perhaps that is the real reason why I continue to walk with him. I don't want to let him go yet. I can't let him go.
But even these minutes pass quickly. The subway arrives, we say goodbye, and he smiles at me once more – is that meant to be an encouraging smile or just a friendly one? Friendly, yet still firm, he says: "But today without a note!" His last words before I leave. I struggle to resist the urge to turn around one last time. It wouldn't change anything anyway. He certainly won't be watching me leave. It would be nice... Yes, today without a note. What else was there to write? Everything has been said today, the most important things were even written yesterday.
His email. I think again about what I read in it. Since he knew I was gay, he had feared that something like this could happen. He sees our friendship as something very special – we could both just be ourselves together. What I felt as a spark was also palpable for him, just with a different meaning attached. Should he have behaved differently? I can't answer that question either. Probably not. He answers it with a sentence that I can't get out of my head, a sentence so convoluted and yet so clear that only he could have put it together: "All these considerations are just symptoms of our feelings that our mind desperately tries to organize."
My mind also desperately tries to organize the symptoms of my feelings, but it fails. I want to get away from here. To run and not stop, just to run through the nighttime city. Yet at the same time, I am so infinitely tired that I would rather not move at all. I still keep moving, and I don't start running.
My apartment greets me with memories. Everything reminds me of him, even though he has only been here for a few hours. He sat in this chair, at this table he ate lasagna with me. His plate is on mine in the kitchen, waiting to be washed. We could have fit together just as well as these two plates. If only I could snuggle up to him now! The remnants of the tomato sauce disappear down the drain. Why can't memories and pain just be washed away too? You can, but the detergent is called time. Without it, I could scrub my soul raw, yet the thoughts of him would still linger. It's incredible what time is capable of.
So what remains? Another entry in my personal list of unrequited love? I look back at its predecessors almost soberly. Will he soon feel the same way? Shouldn't there be more left of the great feelings? Time is merciless. It takes everything, whether pain, joy, good or bad memories, whether you want it or not. How time passes... childhood, youth, adulthood. Nothing stays as it was. Since I became somewhat of an adult, I can no longer stand Christmas. It feels melancholic, it reminds me of lost childhood, the years as a teenager, and especially of what could have been different. Since I became somewhat of an adult, this celebration has lost its magic for me. I have become too sober – disillusioned.
"But there must be things you believe in! Some values or... love!" he said to me when I told him about my thoughts last week. How could I have misunderstood sentences like that? Did I deliberately search for hints everywhere? Or were they just hanging in the air, waiting to be misinterpreted by me? I lie in bed and search for the mistake. I can't find it. Did I do something wrong? No, I can't be blamed for the situation. I did what I could, no missed opportunity, no inappropriate behavior. This time, I really can't be blamed. Neither can he. Some things are just not meant to be. Fate? Do I believe in fate? I don't know. Didn't he ask me that at some point? He! He, he, he! Wherever I think, it's him!
Everything could have been so perfect. I think back to how we met, how we talked for the first time for a longer time, what we did together, what kind of emails he sent me via text! All of that gave me cause to dream. As I now know, not even too far-fetched, but still not real – just a dream. Again and again I read all his texts that have accumulated in my phone over the last year without ever being deleted. Was all of that supposed to mean nothing? At least not what I had hoped for.
I just want to burst into tears, it hurts so much. I can't, I never can. I often find it hard to show my feelings openly – but I can confide in him. He has always understood me, and he still does. Why couldn't he just declare me crazy and insult me? That would have made everything much easier; then I could at least hate him. But like this? Why does he still have to be so nice to me and make everything even worse? Do I really want that? To hate him? But I also don't want to love him anymore. Damn it, how much I love him! I don't want to anymore! "If I were really gay, then the letter would have been a great start," he said. Great! But he isn't. And now?
Now I'm lying here, lonely, disappointed. I've tried to make my little apartment somewhat cozy. Inside, it's dark; after all, it's December – two weeks before Christmas, the festival of love. How fitting.
The beginning of the year! The university party. An incredible evening. By then, I had started to slowly but surely completely fall for him. We had danced for a long time—no, not with each other, but together—and I wished that the party would never end. When it eventually had to come to an end, it got even better. I was there as a helper for the party and had to help with the cleanup a bit. He immediately offered to help without being asked, and we carried beer tables together. Carried? No, the tables and benches actually floated, almost magically, with me on cloud nine.
At some point, much too early for the first subway, we slipped away and ended up on a waiting bench. How I wished I could lean against him and cuddle in his arms back then, but I wasn't able to say anything to him—not yet. That would take almost a year. So he sensed it back then... The way I looked at him, he explained to me.
I can still remember the conversation very clearly. Whether it would be worse to lose hearing or eyesight. What a topic for four in the morning! But somehow, it was just right—at least the right thing to finally enchant me. A very typical conversation for him, as I would later realize. I've never been able to talk so profoundly about seemingly unimportant topics with anyone else. Recently, we pondered whether it would be easier to build a raft or a canoe if stranded on a deserted island.
Yes, that was on that memorable evening eight days ago. We had met at the winter festival in the evening, strolled through the tents with booths, and eventually got stuck in the food tent. At some point, we ended up discussing love, whether I believed in it, he asked me. Admittedly, I am somewhat skeptical about love. Sure, it exists, and life wouldn't be half as beautiful without it, but so far, I've mostly experienced love as something tragic. Love that remains unanswered on one side, relationships that are doomed from the start because one confuses a little affection with true love on the other. At least that's how it has always been for me until now. Now we both sit here in my apartment. I look at him. How beautiful he is!
Objectively, he might not be a dream man, but to me, he is. I like his deep eyes. I like his silky, medium-length hair, his beautiful mouth, with which he says so many intelligent things. He is not as superficial as many others. I believe that primarily it is this that I have fallen so inappropriately in love with him. It’s not superficialities, but rather his character and charm that captivate me.
When we briefly go to the supermarket to get something to eat, he suggests a ready-made lasagna. "I love unhealthy food the most." I have to smile and love him a little more. How could he have enchanted me so? Whatever he says, I am fascinated by it. Even more so, I am fascinated by his silence. "The beautiful thing about us is that we can also just be quiet without everyone desperately searching for something to say. Then, in that moment, it's just right to say nothing." What a simple yet enchanting observation we made last week. Normally, I hate such situations when you've been talking and suddenly no one knows what to say anymore. With him, it's different. We just understand each other; you don't always need words.
Just like now, as we sit across from each other after dinner, each lost in our thoughts. I can't help but look at him dreamily. His eyes, his hair, his mouth. I love him and can't help it. Involuntarily, I have to laugh. "I still can't believe I really did that. I've never done anything like that before." It really was a bold move, but somehow it just had to happen. As sure as I was about my feelings after that evening, I remained unclear about his. Finally, after days, I gathered all my courage and sat down to write him a letter. A real love letter—the first in my life.
"That really made me happy, to receive a proper letter like that." I can't help but grin. – "I also put a lot of effort into it." He grins back. In the most beautiful handwriting I could manage, I had written almost two pages of text on paper, in which I not only confessed my love to him but also explained how I came to have serious hopes. It was important to me; it shouldn't look completely thoughtless. In the end, I was quite satisfied with my work. The next day – the day before yesterday – I invited him to go to the cinema with me and a few other people and handed him the letter as we said goodbye. It's incredible that I managed to get through it without any second thoughts, considering how excited I was all evening.
Then came the anxious waiting. That evening at the winter festival, when we had sat at the table for a long time after dinner and somehow got onto the topic of love, he had asked me in a serious voice if I was looking for something lasting. From that moment on, I couldn't hold back anymore. That question, along with all the other clues, could only mean one thing. There had been an immense tension in the air for the rest of the evening. But then, when I later tried to probe a little, he had, for the first time since I met him, clearly stated that he was heterosexual. That couldn't possibly fit together. Maybe he was just unsure of himself, or perhaps he was just afraid to come out, or maybe I was just piecing together complete nonsense. Anything was possible, and I was waiting to see what he would say.
He understands me, understands my thought processes, can empathize exactly with how I must have felt. "I would have found a short text message simply inappropriate," he explains to me. We agree on that. I had already considered whether I should include my email address in the letter – for some reason, we had never emailed each other despite knowing each other for over a year. I realize that I don't even know his last name. Love doesn't need a name. But it does need an email address to be able to write more than 160 characters. So all I received to read after I finally dared to open his text yesterday, after much hesitation, was the question about that very address.
Again, the waiting. It could mean anything or nothing. A love declaration via text message is tasteless, a rejection via text message is just as bad. Does a rejection via email really have more style? I don't know. After all, I had also confessed my love to him in written form. At least his rejection was the nicest one I could have imagined. "I should probably be disappointed and devastated right now, but I'm not," I wrote back to him, still completely unable to accept what I had just read and simultaneously still completely captivated by him. A text like only he could write. A soulmate connection? Me, in his eyes, a fascinating person? It all sounded so wonderful, even though it actually represented a disaster for me.
In my eyes, he is also a fascinating person, even more so after I read the letter than ever before. I loved him even a little more immediately. He had written that this shouldn't destroy our wonderful friendship; I had already emphasized that in my letter. I reaffirmed it once again in my response and immediately invited him over for the next evening – today – to talk things over a bit. Yes, we want to continue nurturing our friendship; we agree on that. We start right away, playing a bit of chess and cards, chatting, having fun. It would actually be a really nice evening, but I am suffering.
So far, I have only ever known love as something tragic. Love that remains unanswered on one side, relationships that are doomed to fail from the start because one confuses a little affection with true love on the other. At least that has always been the case until now. Now we are both sitting here in my apartment. I look at him. He is incredibly beautiful, and love is something incredibly tragic. Even though I still haven't grasped the tragedy in its full extent, not even when we met today.
As he slowly turns to leave, I feel that the moment of bitter awakening will soon be here – it must be here. I refuse to miss the chance to walk with him to the subway. Just a nice gesture on my part? Certainly that, but not only. Perhaps a train station seems to me the most fitting place for the farewell that is about to happen. The final farewell to my dreams and hopes. I can still delay the moment of this farewell for a few more minutes. Not much, but still. Perhaps that is the real reason why I continue to walk with him. I don't want to let him go yet. I can't let him go.
But even these minutes pass quickly. The subway arrives, we say goodbye, and he smiles at me once more – is that meant to be an encouraging smile or just a friendly one? Friendly, yet still firm, he says: "But today without a note!" His last words before I leave. I struggle to resist the urge to turn around one last time. It wouldn't change anything anyway. He certainly won't be watching me leave. It would be nice... Yes, today without a note. What else was there to write? Everything has been said today, the most important things were even written yesterday.
His email. I think again about what I read in it. Since he knew I was gay, he had feared that something like this could happen. He sees our friendship as something very special – we could both just be ourselves together. What I felt as a spark was also palpable for him, just with a different meaning attached. Should he have behaved differently? I can't answer that question either. Probably not. He answers it with a sentence that I can't get out of my head, a sentence so convoluted and yet so clear that only he could have put it together: "All these considerations are just symptoms of our feelings that our mind desperately tries to organize."
My mind also desperately tries to organize the symptoms of my feelings, but it fails. I want to get away from here. To run and not stop, just to run through the nighttime city. Yet at the same time, I am so infinitely tired that I would rather not move at all. I still keep moving, and I don't start running.
My apartment greets me with memories. Everything reminds me of him, even though he has only been here for a few hours. He sat in this chair, at this table he ate lasagna with me. His plate is on mine in the kitchen, waiting to be washed. We could have fit together just as well as these two plates. If only I could snuggle up to him now! The remnants of the tomato sauce disappear down the drain. Why can't memories and pain just be washed away too? You can, but the detergent is called time. Without it, I could scrub my soul raw, yet the thoughts of him would still linger. It's incredible what time is capable of.
So what remains? Another entry in my personal list of unrequited love? I look back at its predecessors almost soberly. Will he soon feel the same way? Shouldn't there be more left of the great feelings? Time is merciless. It takes everything, whether pain, joy, good or bad memories, whether you want it or not. How time passes... childhood, youth, adulthood. Nothing stays as it was. Since I became somewhat of an adult, I can no longer stand Christmas. It feels melancholic, it reminds me of lost childhood, the years as a teenager, and especially of what could have been different. Since I became somewhat of an adult, this celebration has lost its magic for me. I have become too sober – disillusioned.
"But there must be things you believe in! Some values or... love!" he said to me when I told him about my thoughts last week. How could I have misunderstood sentences like that? Did I deliberately search for hints everywhere? Or were they just hanging in the air, waiting to be misinterpreted by me? I lie in bed and search for the mistake. I can't find it. Did I do something wrong? No, I can't be blamed for the situation. I did what I could, no missed opportunity, no inappropriate behavior. This time, I really can't be blamed. Neither can he. Some things are just not meant to be. Fate? Do I believe in fate? I don't know. Didn't he ask me that at some point? He! He, he, he! Wherever I think, it's him!
Everything could have been so perfect. I think back to how we met, how we talked for the first time for a longer time, what we did together, what kind of emails he sent me via text! All of that gave me cause to dream. As I now know, not even too far-fetched, but still not real – just a dream. Again and again I read all his texts that have accumulated in my phone over the last year without ever being deleted. Was all of that supposed to mean nothing? At least not what I had hoped for.
I just want to burst into tears, it hurts so much. I can't, I never can. I often find it hard to show my feelings openly – but I can confide in him. He has always understood me, and he still does. Why couldn't he just declare me crazy and insult me? That would have made everything much easier; then I could at least hate him. But like this? Why does he still have to be so nice to me and make everything even worse? Do I really want that? To hate him? But I also don't want to love him anymore. Damn it, how much I love him! I don't want to anymore! "If I were really gay, then the letter would have been a great start," he said. Great! But he isn't. And now?
Now I'm lying here, lonely, disappointed. I've tried to make my little apartment somewhat cozy. Inside, it's dark; after all, it's December – two weeks before Christmas, the festival of love. How fitting.