Chapter 0 — The Lukas Manifesto

The S-Bahn rolled into Warschauer Straße station with a metallic screech, and I leaned against the pillar, hands in my pockets. Above me, a sky already breathing that heavy, impatient Berlin summer, even though it was only June — the air thick and sluggish, laced with the smell of hot asphalt and the sweet smoke drifting off döner stands — Berlin's beloved kebab stalls. Berlin wasn't a place to me — it was a permanent high, a rollercoaster of loud clubs, cold beers from the Späti — Berlin's iconic late-night corner store — and endless nights whose mornings came out grayer than the façades in Kreuzberg.

That was my microcosm, my kingdom, and I was its uncrowned Chaos King — a nickname my friends had slapped on me that, I'll admit, fit perfectly. But deep down, I already suspected this perfect system of chaos wouldn't hold forever. Sooner or later, someone would show up and blow my rules to pieces. I just didn't know it would happen so soon — or that it would feel exactly like first love.

My freedom was my most prized possession, staying uncommitted my mantra. Relationships? A complicated, outdated idea. My hookups were short and intense — emotional accelerants that burned out after a couple of weeks and left behind the perfect ashes. I switched up my crew the way other people switched socks, depending on whichever party was happening that night. I knew everyone, knew the best rooftops for sunrise and the cheapest bars in Neukölln, but underneath it all, I was a loner. I needed the crowd to feel anonymous — not to actually belong to it.

My best friend, Timo, was the one constant in my Chaos King kingdom. He accepted my rules, played partner-in-crime for every party, no questions asked. We'd stand for hours on some drafty rooftop, beer going warm, the city loud below us. Once, when I told him about my latest fling — the one I'd ended with some ridiculous excuse — he leaned against the railing and just said, "Lukas, I'm loyal, you know that. But at some point it gets old, watching you slam the brakes right before the finish line, every single time. Try sticking with one thing for once — just as an experiment." I laughed, way too loud. Any advice that smelled like commitment could only be answered with sabotage. So that same night, I ended a promising almost-something at the bar with one cynical line — just to prove to him, and to myself, that my manifesto held water. Later, biking aimlessly through the night, neon streetlight flashing off the spokes, I felt strong and free. But underneath, deeper than I wanted to admit, something gnawed at me — the feeling that I'd just cut loose a real anchor.

The ashes of my last thing with Clara were barely cold when she asked to meet up. We sat in one of those packed cafés in Kreuzberg, the smell of fresh-ground coffee mixing with cigarette smoke drifting in from the terrace. Her look was soft, but it wanted something. "Lukas, this is getting kind of serious, isn't it? I like you. I like the chaos. But I like it honest, too." Her attempt to break through the wall just triggered a cold, panicked reflex in me. I brewed up the perfect, cynical response, pulled out my phone, opened my file of fake excuses, and picked the classic. "Uh, sorry, Clara, gotta go. Stomach thing, and my grandma needs to get to the doctor, like, now — she's totally out of it." She looked at me — disbelieving, almost hurt, fingers clenched around her coffee cup. "Lukas. We're literally in a café. We've been seeing each other for two months. And your grandma was on Instagram yesterday." I just shrugged — and twisted the knife one more time. I used the metallic screech of a passing U-Bahn — Berlin's subway system — to cover my exit, held the phone to my ear, made a face, and yelled way too loud: "WHAT?! Can't hear you! I'm in the tunnel, you're breaking up! Bye, GOTTA GO!" I grabbed my bag off the chair and ran. I felt the hurt I'd caused — but it was a price worth paying. Emotional standstill meant safety, to me.

Sexuality? I didn't see myself as gay or straight. I was just me. My hookups were short and intense, mostly with girls, but a guy or two made the list too — all of it just experience. I'd even had a wild threesome once, a girl and a guy. Labels didn't matter, as long as I got to wake up alone in my own bed afterward. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the city finally went still and all you could hear was the far-off hum of night buses, I'd wonder: what if I met someone who made me not want to run in the morning?

My style was my second suit of armor. I liked vintage pieces that looked like I'd stumbled on them by accident at a flea market, paired with expensive, minimalist designer sneakers. The whole look had to be effortless and untouchable — an expensive dose of casual that said: I'm cool, but I'm not trying. Problem was, sometimes I had zero natural talent for it and the combination just didn't work. But every once in a while, pure luck landed me dead center — and I looked criminally good.

My basement safe-room in Friedrichshain was perfect. That's where I lived by my own rules, indulged my own vices. The room smelled like leather and the sweet haze of weed, the walls buzzing with bass from my sound system. My favorite vice: deep techno that hit you square in the gut. I worked on my DJ sets, even though I knew the transitions were rough — an attempt to keep control of my own soundtrack, because I was scared of losing control of my feelings. The bass helped slow down the endless spin cycle in my head. Sometimes I'd bike to the Warschauer Brücke — a major nightlife hotspot in Berlin — just to soak up the crowds, the lights, the endless sprawl and anonymity of the city. I'd watch couples making out and feel superior on the inside, glad I wasn't that pathetically vulnerable. But sometimes, if I looked a little too long, I'd feel a strange pang — like I was missing something. My hobbies were simple: spinning DJ sets, even if it was just in my room, testing new transitions. I had zero talent for it, the transitions were rough and the beats skipped, but none of that mattered. It was my soundtrack — that was the whole point. I also loved cruising aimlessly on my bike at night until the lights blurred together, and photographing Berlin street art. That was my creative outlet.

My vices were pretty manageable. I loved cold Berlin beer — strong enough to carry me through the night, without the nasty vodka hangover. I rarely smoked, but a joint now and then helped slow the endless spin cycle in my head. Music-wise, anything with bass worked for me: techno, deep house, experimental German rap — as long as it hit you in the gut.

My little basement apartment in my parents' house in Friedrichshain was my retreat, the safe room I'd fought hard to get. With my own entrance and my own bathroom, I had total privacy — and my parents figured that as long as I wasn't a total trainwreck, they could just leave me alone. A perfect arrangement. This was where I prepped my sets, where I could think out loud, where nothing could touch me.

I'd just gotten my Abitur — Germany's high-school diploma — with grades that were surprisingly good for someone whose attendance at school had been more of a suggestion. My future? Wide open. Travel the world? Sure, sounded nice. But the truth was, I loved Berlin — this raw, honest grime — way too much. This city gave me security in its endless sprawl and anonymity.

My favorite spots were anything that screamed freedom: the steps along the Spree in Kreuzberg, perfect for sunsets, the ruins in Volkspark Friedrichshain, and of course the Warschauer Brücke — the gateway to chaos. The Späti around the corner was basically my second living room; the woman behind the counter already knew my beer order by heart.

Here are a few facts about me you should know:

Wild fact #1: I can perfectly imitate the sound of a train pulling through the U-Bahn tunnel. Sometimes I use it to end conversations, pretending I'm just heading into a tunnel.

Wild fact #2: I've never had a Netflix subscription. I think it's cooler to just ask people what they're watching and then sit through a fifteen-minute, passionate recap.

Wild fact #3: Whenever I stood in line outside Berghain, I always kept a spare sock in my pocket. Why? Because you always need a backup plan. And because it's Berlin. You've got to be ready for anything.

The unlikeable fact I love about myself: I keep a whole stash of fake excuse notes saved on my phone ("Stomach bug," "Grandma needs the ER," and so on). Whenever someone asks me for help, or wants something inconvenient from me, I pull out an excuse without blinking. It makes me efficient and free. That little spark of selfish coldness is exactly what makes me strong in my friend group — and maybe exactly why you're wondering whether there's still something human left under this act.

I stood there — with that grin, that certainty that I had my life completely handled, perfectly balanced between closeness and distance. The warm evening air carried the smell of charcoal and cigarettes toward me, while the first neon lights of the bars began to flicker on. Up until that summer, I was convinced I'd never need a guy like Amir — that elegant, deep, gorgeous, but clearly seriously complicated guy. I already had my chaos. The last thing I needed was a disaster that would blow up my whole system. But then came the Müggelsee — Berlin's biggest lake. And suddenly, my manifesto was just paper. Suddenly I learned what it means when chaos turns into real love — our love, the one that changed everything.

Chapter 1 — The Party

Summer in Berlin is like one long high. A promise the city keeps on every corner, an unwritten invitation to hit pause on your own life for a few months. The heat lies over the asphalt like a sticky blanket, shimmering above the sidewalks, turning the city into a simmering cauldron of possibility. People react by breaking every rule that isn't bolted down, like the sun's granting everyone a collective amnesty from common sense. The city never sleeps — and if it does, only for a minute, before someone cranks a speaker back up and a group chat screams: 'Everybody out, we're partying!' The echo bounces through the courtyards, mixing with the hum of air conditioners and the far-off rush of the S-Bahn. For me, that was perfect. I wasn't a student with a thesis due, not some guy who had to show up at an office at seven a.m. My life was one long, improvised freestyle dance between Spätis, parks, and smoky basements. I loved that chaos, that freedom — the smell of hot asphalt mixed with döner and the sweet scent of linden blossoms. It was my element, my personal, unwritten Berlin manifesto. I was eighteen, and I felt like I knew half of Berlin — or at least the people you need to know so you never end up sitting home alone. My style was as spontaneous as my schedule: a band tee I'd swiped off a flea market table a year ago, jeans worn through with holes because they were supposed to have holes, not because I was broke. I had this easy, almost arrogant Berlin coolness that doesn't pretend to be perfect. I looked like I'd just stumbled out of some smoky underground club and decided to keep the night going at the lake. My hair fell in loose strands across my face, and I smelled like a mix of cheap shower gel, summer heat, and the beer I'd already had — a perfume of not giving a damn. I was the Chaos King of my own world: the guy who showed up everywhere and disappeared just as fast, who crashed every friend group with a high-five and a 'What's up?' The city's anonymity was my canvas, the freedom it gave me was the air I breathed. This city is my anchor — not because it offers safety, but because it lets you reinvent yourself every single day. Berlin is a place where you can tear up your own biography and rewrite it, where every morning is a blank page and every night promises a new chapter. Nobody asks about your background, your family, your plans. Here, the only thing that matters is: are you in it, right now, in this moment? And that night, everything was about to change — without me having the slightest clue. Something in me had already been looking for more than just the next high, for a connection that ran deeper than the usual party hookups. A longing I could barely admit to myself, gnawing like a hunger for something I couldn't even name. Maybe that's why my eyes would end up stuck on him later that night.

Though I only lived out that anonymity once I was outside my own front door. My home base was my parents' house in Friedrichshain — a solid semi-detached house with a tidy front garden where my mom pruned the roses every Saturday. I already had my own little place down in the basement — completely separate, with its own bathroom and a mini kitchen. It gave me the freedom I needed without leaving me totally on my own. In the mornings, the smell of fresh coffee drifted down through the ceiling, mixed with the scent of butter cookies and the comforting routine of family life happening above me. My dad worked in middle management at a big Berlin company and had a solid network. He leaned conservative when it came to order and discipline — his shirts hung perfectly pressed in the closet, his shoes lined up like soldiers — but when it came to my freedom, he was actually pretty open. As long as my grades didn't completely tank and I stuck to the important rules, he let me do my thing. His motto: 'Learn to manage your own freedom.' My mom worked part-time at the same company as my dad. Most of the time she agreed with him, but deep down she was a lot more open to life's craziness, and to my spontaneous stunts. She'd smile knowingly whenever I stumbled into the kitchen at eleven a.m. with hungover eyes, sliding a coffee across to me without a word. As for Amir's family — at that point, I knew absolutely nothing. A total unknown in the equation.

That Friday, we headed to the Müggelsee. Practically a second home in the summer. The place where all the city's tension unloads into pure, loud ecstasy. Nowhere does Berlin feel more like a vacation: water, sand, forest — plus half the city dragging speakers and beer crates along with them. Getting there was already a ritual in itself: an S-Bahn packed with tipsy teenagers, speakers competing against each other, the clink of bottles, and the buzzing hum of anticipation. The party at the lake is ritual, necessity. The ultimate act of defiance against every rule, a collective surrender of common sense. Technically, you're not allowed to party there at night, but who cares? The cops never made it through the woods out here anyway. We showed up late, as always. The sun was already gone, just a last red smear hanging in the sky like a fading lipstick stain, the first stars fighting their way through Berlin's dome of light pollution. Along the shore, two campfires flickered, surrounded by blankets, beer bottles, people in every state from 'buzzed' to 'completely gone.' Smoke drifted lazily into the warm air, mixing with the smell of grilled meat and spilled beer. Music blasted from every direction — German rap against techno against 2000s pop, like some wild radio station playing every frequency at once. Bass vibrated through the sand, rattling the beer bottles, blending with the lapping of the waves into one chaotic symphony of night. I was instantly in my element. I can't explain nights like that — I just dive in, like jumping into a warm pool. Familiar faces everywhere, a high-five here, a hug there, conversations you forget the second they're over. Laughter echoed across the water, voices tripping over each other, someone shouting my name out of the dark. I was buzzed before my shoes even hit the sand. That feeling that anything's possible. That nobody's thinking about tomorrow, only right now. Pure, unfiltered present tense, sweet as the first sip of cold beer on a hot day.

And then I saw him. Amir. I swear, he was one of those guys you physically cannot miss — like someone had a spotlight trained on him. Tall, athletic, carrying himself with a posture that was almost too composed for a beach party. His clothes were simple — a dark, well-fitted T-shirt, clean light-colored shorts — but nothing about it looked accidental. Understatement with an eye for detail, like he'd stepped straight out of a magazine and decided to slum it with the rest of us mortals. His hair was black and thick, cut just right so it never fell into his face, even when he laughed. And that laugh — not the loud, unfiltered whooping you'd expect at the Müggelsee, but a low, layered kind of laugh that made his dark eyes spark. Those eyes. Dark, almost black, like they were always in on some secret joke only he knew. When he looked up, it felt less like he was looking at you and more like he was looking straight through you — like he could read thoughts you hadn't even had yet. His jawline was sharp, striking, giving his face an almost too-perfect, sculpted quality. He gave off this quiet, undeniable confidence — not arrogant, just the calm certainty of someone who knows he's wanted. You could tell he wasn't fully there on that beach — like his mind was somewhere else, like he was playing a part while his real self hid somewhere out of sight. So stupidly attractive it was almost funny: not just a girl-magnet, but some kind of law of aesthetic nature that pulled me in with an intensity that wasn't healthy. Even in that very first moment, I could feel something bigger starting here — more than just your average party hookup. He was sitting in the middle of a group of girls on a blanket, all of them styled like it was a festival photo shoot. They laughed at every line he said, nudged him, hung on his every word like moths to a flame. And Amir? He was eating it up. That self-assured smile, that leaned-back posture, like the world belonged to him — like he knew exactly what effect he had.

I'd never really talked to him. We ran in different circles — him in the upper tier of Berlin's party scene, me down in the chaotic shallows. I was the guy who was a little bit everywhere. Amir, on the other hand, had his place. He was popular, but in a different way. Guys were less into him; girls, way more so. Competition, obviously. I'd seen him around at parties plenty of times, but never with the same girl for more than two weeks — like he collected them and tossed them back once the novelty wore off.

Maybe he just didn't want to belong to anyone. Maybe he needed freedom just as much as I did — he just didn't look for it in noise, but in controlled retreat. In the art of staying unreachable while everyone else danced their souls out.

While I headed toward the fire with my buddies, my eyes kept drifting back to him. Like a magnet I couldn't resist. I didn't even know why. Maybe because he sat there, right in the middle of the chaos, and still stood out, like he'd drawn some invisible membrane between himself and the noise of the party. Like he was there and not there at the same time, present and somehow far away. At some point I ended up closer to the fire, dancing a little, tripping over my own feet laughing — and that's when I realized I was standing right across from Amir. He'd broken away from his pack of girls — no idea if it was on purpose or by accident. But suddenly, there he was. Just him, a vodka bottle in his hand, the glow of the fire reflected in his eyes like liquid gold. We looked at each other. A look that lasted longer than it should have. I felt the alcohol rush to my face, felt my heart stumble into some irregular rhythm. Then he grinned. That classic Amir grin — crooked, knowing, like he was letting me in on a secret. 'You good?' he asked. Easy. Casual. Like we'd talked a thousand times before. I laughed, maybe too loud. 'Oh, for sure, best night ever.' Not my smoothest line, but Amir didn't clown me for it. Instead, he lifted the vodka bottle and held it out to me. I took it, even though I can't stand vodka. But right then? Didn't matter. The sharp burn in my throat was nothing next to the fire his look had already lit in me.

We talked. Small talk at first — music, the cops, summer. Then it got more intense. Not the topics themselves, but the way we talked. He listened, laughed in all the right places, and I noticed myself leaning closer without ever deciding to. The party kept raging around us — but suddenly it felt like we were inside our own little bubble. The music quieter, the people blurred, like someone had softened the focus on the rest of the world. Just him and me. In that moment of urban intoxication, in that all-night summer haze where Berlin promised maximum freedom, I found an anchor I'd never gone looking for. I was the Chaos King who only ever knew the surface of things, and Amir was the mystery I suddenly wanted to dig into. That's exactly where our love started — even though back then, I wouldn't have said the word out loud. We talked — and somehow we didn't. More like fragments, words that got swallowed by the noise and still stuck with me, like smoke in your clothes. He mentioned something about starting college in Munich that fall. I probably only caught half of it, but I nodded like I was memorizing every detail. His voice had this hypnotic quality — low, calm, with a faint accent I couldn't place. I told him about my last club night, about nights in Friedrichshain, about my sister, who sometimes thinks I'm the biggest idiot alive. He grinned in a way that made me swear, silently, that I could keep rambling for hours just to see that grin again.

At some point we ended up on a blanket someone had left behind. Sand stuck to my ankles, cool and damp with dew, the air smelling like smoke and cheap beer, mixed with the sweet scent of weed and the metallic smell of the lake. I could feel the fire's warmth from one side and Amir's from right next to me — a different kind of heat, one that had nothing to do with the flames. He was close. Not too close, not yet. But close enough that our shoulders brushed whenever I moved. Every single time, a strange little jolt ran through me, and I shoved it away immediately: 'Alcohol. That's all it is.' I acted like I hadn't noticed, but inside it burned like a small electric shock spreading through my whole body. Around us, the party was slowly tipping into chaos. Someone puked into the bushes a few feet away, immediately met with a chorus of 'Ooooh's.' Others were belting out songs nobody knew, dancing in the sand, stumbling into the water. The splashing mixed with laughter and the distant hum of the highway. To me, all of that was just background noise. My attention was stuck on Amir like honey on my fingers. He leaned back, propped up on his elbows, staring into the dark. 'Crazy how huge the lake looks at night,' he murmured, more to himself than to me. His voice sounded thoughtful, almost melancholy. I looked at him. The lines of his face, lit by the fire and the water's reflection, looked almost too perfect — like something carved out of warm marble. I caught myself staring longer than I should have. When he turned his head back, our eyes met. No idea how long that lasted. A second, a minute. Time seemed to stop, like the world was holding its breath. 'Want another sip?' he finally asked, holding the bottle out to me. I took it, drank, even though I already knew my head was going to explode tomorrow. As I lowered the bottle, his gaze stayed locked on me. Direct. Open. No looking away. My heart was racing like a hummingbird in a cage. I wanted to say something, some dumb line to cut the tension. But my voice caught, like someone had muted the sound. Then he leaned in, just a little. Slow. Not much. Just enough that I noticed. The air between us crackled like right before a storm. I don't remember anymore who closed that last half inch first. Suddenly his lips were on mine. Warm. Hesitant. Surprisingly soft. A shock, and at the same time it felt like the most logical thing in the world, like the universe had finally clicked back into place.

We paused, just for a second, like we were checking if this was actually happening. Then it stopped mattering. He pulled me closer, I pulled him closer, and everything blurred. Hands, breath, heartbeat. His skin smelled like sunscreen and something undefinable that belonged only to him. My thoughts were racing: What the hell is happening right now? — and at the same time: Please never stop. I don't know how much time passed. Minutes, hours. We laughed in between, whispered things I couldn't remember the next morning. Everything felt wrapped in cotton, blurred, layered under the buzz and the sweet madness of the moment. At some point we drifted away from the fire, stumbled laughing through the sand, held onto each other, kissed again, stopped to keep kissing, like there was no tomorrow. The sand was cool under our feet, the stars glittering like diamonds on black velvet. And at some point, there was no turning back anymore. The night ended in a blur, like looking through a fogged-up window. All I remember is warmth, skin, the feeling that suddenly nothing else existed except the two of us. The smell of salt and sweat, the sound of the water, and Amir's breath against my ear. And then — blackout. When I woke up the next morning, Amir was lying next to me. Half covered, half naked, his face relaxed in sleep. Morning light filtered through the treetops, throwing golden streaks across his skin. My heart skipped. My head was pounding like a jackhammer. My first thought: Shit! But some part of me — a part I didn't even know yet — whispered quietly: That was only the beginning.

Chapter 2 — The Morning After

I woke up because someone was playing drums inside my skull. Hard. Right next to my temples. The metallic taste of too much beer clung to the roof of my mouth, my tongue felt like sandpaper. I groaned, rolled over — and immediately felt that something was off. There was warmth. No blanket, no pillow. A warmth that breathed. Steady, even, with a quiet sigh on every breath. I opened my eyes. Slowly, carefully, like the world might flatten me otherwise. Weak morning light filtered through the trees, throwing dancing shadows over our makeshift sleeping spot on the shore. And then I saw him. Amir. Right next to me. Half covered by last night's rumpled blanket, his arm stretched out, fingers slightly curled, like he'd been reaching for something in his sleep. His face was peaceful, dark lashes casting little shadows on his cheeks, his mouth slightly open. Like this was the most normal thing in the world. I froze. My heart was pounding so hard I thought he had to hear it, had to feel it hammering against my ribs. Flashes of last night came rushing back — not clear scenes, just little bursts of lightning. His laugh, warm and rough against my ear. His gaze, holding me in place like a promise. Kisses that tasted like beer and summer. Hands that were shaky and sure at the same time. Skin that felt hot and foreign and somehow familiar all at once. Chaos. And then... nothing. Blackout. 'Shit...' I murmured, barely audible. My stomach clenched, and not just from the alcohol. I lay there, next to a guy, naked, the cool morning air prickling on my skin, after a night that shouldn't have happened. Not to me, at least. Not with him. And yet — there was this warm feeling in my chest that stubbornly refused to go away. A feeling like warm honey, spreading slowly. Like my body already knew what my head wasn't ready to accept: that this was more than just a mistake. I turned my head away, stared up at the ceiling of leaves and sky, like it might give me some kind of answer. But there was only this dull sense that everything was wrong and somehow, at the same time, way too right. What did I do? Was I really that drunk? Did I want this? Am I... gay? The word shot through my head like an arrow. I wanted to shove it away immediately. 'No, come on. Just the alcohol. Totally normal. Everyone does something crazy sometimes.' But the voice in my head didn't sound convinced — it was shaking, just like my hands. And deep down, I knew: this was the beginning of something. Of our love. Even if I couldn't say the word yet.

I turned back toward him. Carefully. He looked... good. Too good. His skin shimmered gold in the morning light, tiny beads of sweat glinting at his throat. Dark lashes resting on his cheeks, that face that had been so close to mine last night that I'd felt his breath, warm and quick. My heart gave a little jump — not just from panic, but from something else. Something warm spreading through my stomach like a ray of sunlight. Something that felt like... affection? Love? I shook my head. Too soon. Too crazy. Suddenly a wave of panic crashed over me, nearly knocking the air out of my lungs. My throat tightened, cold sweat broke out. I had to get out of there. Now. I sat up slowly, my head pounding like a jackhammer, my body sticking to the damp blanket. I searched frantically for my pants, somewhere between the sand and the pile of clothes, my fingers trembling. My heart raced like I was about to get caught stealing something. I yanked my shirt on before I'd even gotten my pants all the way up, the fabric sticking to my sweaty skin. Then Amir moved. A quiet sound, a sigh that sounded almost like my name. His eyes opened. Dark, sleepy, locked right on me. For a second, something showed in his gaze — something soft, almost tender, like a silent hello. Then his face closed back up, like a door slamming shut. Silence. My mouth was dry as dust. I wanted to say something — Good morning, I'm sorry, It was just the alcohol, That was nice... anything. But nothing came out. Just a hoarse 'Ah...' He propped himself up halfway, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

His eyes flicked to me for a second, then away, like they might get burned. No smile. No word. But no blame, either. The silence between us was heavy as lead, but it wasn't hostile. It was full of unspoken questions, full of confusion — but also full of possibility, hanging in the air like invisible threads.

For a few endless seconds, that crushing silence sat between us, and everything in me clenched up. There was nothing I could say — and that was exactly what scared me. Panic crawled hot up the back of my neck, my chest felt tight, like I was about to suffocate any second. I couldn't take it anymore. Without a word, like something inside me had taken over, I sat up, threw my clothes on in a rush, and started squirming my way out of the situation — just get away from here, out of this closeness, out of the morning light, away from everything that was too much.

Without another word, I stumbled up from our makeshift campsite, tripping barefoot through the damp sand, shirt still half-open, eyes fixed on the ground. My only thought: get out. Out of that intimacy, out of the closeness that had stirred everything up inside me. I hurried toward the dark line of trees, my heart pounding in my throat, only the crunch of sand and the distant lapping of the lake keeping me company. Every step felt heavy, like the forest was trying to swallow me whole. I just wanted to go home, back to my old, chaotic life, back to the safety of denial. But with every step, I felt it: there was no real way back anymore.

I couldn't stop thinking about him. The way his hair fell across his forehead, wild and uncombed. His eyes half-closed, his long lashes like tiny brushstrokes. His skin in the early morning light almost too perfect, like something out of a movie. My heart raced every time I thought about it — and at the same time, my brain immediately snapped to: 'No! You are not allowed to find him sexy. You are not allowed to fall for him. It was just the alcohol!' But I couldn't help it. I couldn't. Every time I thought about how close we'd been last night, how his lips had touched mine — soft and warm and a little salty — a wave shot through me, hot and panicked at the same time. This wasn't just physical attraction. This was something deeper. Something that felt like the beginning of a first love — even if I wasn't ready to admit that to myself yet. And then I remembered the silence that morning, his face, that mix of embarrassment and confusion, and I felt guilty, mortified — how could I look at him like that, feel like that? Amir. God, Amir. He was sexy, confident, charming. Everything I admired and feared at the same time. And now he was just lying there, not saying anything, and I had no idea how we were supposed to move forward from this. I stepped onto the forest path, wet leaves crunching under my feet, walking further and further away, trying to clear my head, but every step felt like a punch to the chest. The trees were still dark, their branches like black fingers against the gray sky. Morning mist rose off the water, ghostly and beautiful, and everything felt like a dream I wished I'd never had. After a few minutes, the road back toward the city came into view. I just wanted to be home, in the cool bathroom, showering, sleeping, forgetting everything. My heart was hammering, my thoughts racing from one worst-case scenario to the next. And then I heard a voice. 'Lukas? Hey! Wait up!' It was Max, one of my buddies from the crew. Two other guys stood next to him, half-asleep, laughing, clearly way too awake for how the party had gone. Their voices sounded too loud in the morning quiet. I forced myself into an easy grin, even though my throat was dry, my head was pounding, and my heart was still back at the Müggelsee. 'Hey... you good, man?' Max asked. His eyes sparked with curiosity, like a detective picking up a hot lead. 'Yeah, all good,' I lied quickly. 'Nothing happened.' My heart was racing as I said it. Of course something happened. But talk about it? Impossible. Not now. Not with him. Not with Max. 'Haha, looked pretty wild last night, though. You were really going for it!' Max laughed, a laugh that went straight through me. 'Haha... yeah, for sure, all good,' I muttered, nodding. I said a quick goodbye, pulled my hood up over my head, and kept walking home. But no matter how fast I walked, no matter how far down I ducked my head — the images of Amir followed me. How close he'd been, how perfect he looked, how sexy every single one of his movements was. I hated myself a little for thinking it, for letting myself think it. But at the same time, I couldn't deny it. This was more than just physical attraction. This was the beginning of something bigger.

My plan: walk home, shower, sleep, forget. But I couldn't forget. Not him. Not us. Not this new realization about myself that was slowly working its way through me, like water through cracks in the pavement.

I kept seeing Amir sitting there, still, muscles tensed like a coiled spring, eyes not quite open, like he might jump up and run at any second — or scream at me. And I understood: for him, this was just as uncomfortable as it was for me. For him, it was humiliating. Maybe even worse. He was probably fighting the same feelings I was — except he also had his faith, his family, the expectations of his culture weighing on his neck like heavy stones. We hadn't said anything. No apology, no 'Hey, so, last night was...' Nothing. Just silence, that said everything and swallowed everything at the same time. I was ashamed of myself, for finding him sexy, for not being able to shut that feeling down. And at the same time, I was ashamed that I couldn't just leave him alone.

Every step home felt like a betrayal of my own heart: I didn't want to lie to him, I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to ask him what all of this meant. But I didn't dare. I was too young, too unsure, and above all, too far gone to think straight.

At home, I kicked off my wet shoes, squeezed my eyes shut, and lay down on my bed. Sand in my hair, gritting between my fingers, head pounding. And in my head, the image of Amir kept haunting me — just a few feet away, just as confused, just as mortified as I was.

I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. This was the beginning of our love story — even if we were both still too much of a coward to say it out loud.