The slight headache is clouding it all, when all I want to do is clearly write everything, You text me, so I know that I‘m still there. It still surprises me when you’ve thought about me, talked about me, without me. I’ve been there and you’ve been here for 17 days now. I had to check the calendar. The first entry, four days before the show. We are standing next to each other in part of a square in silence, both leaning against the wall. My eyes are down, lying, passive, while R gushes, I act non affected, but I want this stranger who’s face I wont look at yet, to see me. You do, I let your eyes gaze at me without my judgement, you make me feel so pretty. Eventually I look at you and smile, we start conversing, easily and I feel like I’ve known your face forever. I tell myself I can’t kiss this boy, you just can’t. But for the rest of the party we hide from the others and tell the little stories. The theory of 'the little stories' When you first meet someone, you tell them the little stories, the ones that you love, and you want him to love you for. We must never stop telling each other these. It will keep us fresh and happy. I smile too often at your stories. I hate that.

Outside the night is too warm for the end of September. The last thing I wanted to do is go home, alone, to an empty bed of regret. But there is no way. I have already decided it is one of those nights. That will continue without sleep. I asked you if you want to go for a walk, I see surprise in your smile and yes. The streets are empty and I secretly name us the nocturnal walkers. For periods we walked apart in silence, happily.

In a full circle we were standing at my car, then you’re sitting in the passanger seat, we travel towards the bridges in the west. Kings of Leon plays through. The car is parked, the lights of Albert bridge glowing unbelievably romantically. I am cautious about all of this, its easiness.

As we step on over the water the lights turned off, and I am happy because I already know you are going to kiss me, wrapped up in the darkness.

After you is gone and I’m waiting at a bus stop, organizing a big mistake. There is a message. Something to help me believe that unlike all of the other times, same depth impressions have been made. Something real is happening to two people at the same time.


13 days ago, you aren’t here, You wrote 8.30, it’s now 9.10. I am in my blue dress and my hair is perfect and there are whispers of good and greatness around. Uncontrollable my heart is sinking. I give up. K asks me why I look so sad. He isn’t here. But you are, suddenly standing behind her, looking at me. I can’t tell what you are thinking. But you are casual. Lovely. Ready.

At 12, the noctural walkers are out. I kiss you as I wish you happy birthday. I actually close my eyes and wish that. And make that. In my bedroom after meeting your friends you sit puzzled. A small carrot cake, with one candle arrives. Every part of your face says thank you. I’m standing at the edge. When you decide the worthy of one human being.