1: Glass Houses

In Berlin’s shadows, Noah’s beauty is currency and loneliness is the price he pays.

It starts with a horn. Like the city shoving its elbows through my window, up into my ears. I’m not really awake, not really asleep anymore either. I drag my eyes open, slow, and the world comes in: the vague outline of my life in a room barely furnished, light crashing dusty through warped old blinds, catching across my chest, making my skin look almost gold. Not really gold though, mostly just my freckles, they’re the only things that seem to catch the light right.


“Fuck it.” I grunt, and swing my legs out of bed, toes curling at the first shock of cold linoleum. The rug isn’t there, of course; I tripped over it yesterday and kicked it into a wall. It’s easier to pretend I don’t feel the cold, so I cross to the kitchenette, flick the switch on the coffee machine. The whole thing spits and hisses at me, like it’s offended by the request, before it finally starts to drip.


Another bus roars by, the building rattling in reply.


I fish the mug from the sink. Maybe it’s not actually clean, just rinsed, but what the hell, I used it yesterday, I’ll use it today.


Coffee in hand, I drop into the hard chair at my tiny kitchen table. Laptop sits there like an anchor, always plugged in, the battery dead and not worth replacing. I flip it open. Same handful of job sites as always. Maybe today will be different, maybe not. Most of the listings are the usual: baristas, waiters, custodians. The ones for artists always shout ‘paid in exposure and contacts’ like that’s a prize. I could wallpaper my apartment with all the ‘exposure’ I’ve been offered.


I sip my coffee and let my mind go dull around it, the jobs, the apartment, the heavy stack of unpaid bills wedged on the bookshelf. They can take care of themselves. I have coffee.


Another sip and I’m up, poking through the dresser. I need something for Lena’s shoot later. She always says ‘find something that fits the vibe,’ but nine out of ten times she has me strip anyway. “The human body is art in itself,” she likes to say. She’s not wrong. But let’s be honest, a hot, naked twunk sells better than the cold, abstract stuff.


I grab the fitted cargo shorts, yank out the black tank top, the one that’s more holes than shirt. The outfit clings where I want: pecs, tight waist, my ass. The bomber jacket over the top for drama, so when I shed it, it’s a little show.


On my way out, I grab an apple. Breakfast of champions: caffeine and fruit.


The ride out to Lichtenberg is all déjà vu. Lena’s obsessed with the dead factories on that side of town, the way the rust and ruin make skin and bone pop in her shots. I’ve done this route so often I could sleep through it, but I watch the landscape shift: from battered apartments, peeling shops, to warehouses and wide lots. It starts to rain, just to drive the point home.


My stop. I jump puddles, duck around the sagging chain-link at the factory corner, slip through the gap. Fifty meters across the gravel, and I’m finally out of the rain, tucked in the crumbling doorway.


Inside, it’s a strobe hit to the face, a flash from Lena’s assistant, who’s wrestling with the lights. Lena’s already yelling, loud enough to echo. “No broken lamps this time, so mind your step!” Then she’s turning to me, huge smile, arms open like she’s about to sweep me into the sun. There’s a wet squelch when she hugs me; her coat is soaked.


“Good to see you again, Noah, it’s been so long.” That’s a lie, we just shot together two weeks ago. “It sure has, but you know how it is. Artist’s life: busy, busy.”


Lena laughs, hooks her arm around my shoulder, and starts in with the vision talk. I tune in for a while as she waxes poetic about light and shadow, but honestly, it’s the same kind of pitch every time. Never the same words, but always the same drift.


She sweeps me toward a spot by the stairs, gestures for me to lean. “Love those eyes,” she breathes. Then the camera’s up, clicking fast, her voice going the whole time, feeding me cues, telling me how to look, how much to give.


“Now, start to take that wet jacket off, slowly.” Orders from the throne. I give her the show: turn my back, roll my shoulders, drag it down slow so my chest is center in the lens. Click, click, click. The jacket puddles on the floor, and I stand there, breathing in the factory air, letting her chase the light along my skin.


That’s the moment I notice the assistant, it’s kind of hard not to, with him barely hidden behind his massive, industrial lamp, the whole thing pointed right at me like I’m being interrogated or something. He’s got his mouth hanging open, eyes basically glued to my ass, like it’s the only one on planet earth and he’s just discovered gravity. Subtlety? Not his thing. I shift my hips just a little, not much effort at all, and it’s like I’ve flipped a switch. Now the front of his jeans is tented so high it’s practically broadcasting a distress beacon; I’m surprised NASA hasn’t called.


I almost burst out laughing right there, but instead I smirk, letting him have his little show. He looks about one more second from knocking over the whole light rig, probably hoping for a closer look.


Click, click, click, the camera keeps going and Lena's mumbling something, “Fuck this is good,” her voice flat. It’s like she’s not even in the same room, lost somewhere with her lens, and all the while I’m soaking up this assistant’s hunger like it’s stage lighting, meant for me. She adds, “Just keep doing what you’re doing,” and honestly, I don’t think she’s ever said that before, but I’ll roll with it.


Without much ceremony, I unbutton my cargo shorts, the ones still heavy and wet from earlier, and in one movement I lean forward and peel them off. The fabric clings for a second, then drops, pooling around my ankles in a soggy heap. I keep my gaze down, just for the anticipation, but when I glance sideways, I catch the assistant’s eyes. He’s watching, totally transfixed. I swear I can feel the flush in his cheeks from all the way across the room.


Lena just keeps repeating herself, “Yes, that’s it. Fuck, this is great,” clicks stacking up as she fires the shutter again and again. So I decide to meet the moment: I drag my eyes slow, tracing his outline, lazy as you please, from where he’s standing, down to the front of his pants, where the bulge is still throbbing behind the zipper. I give him a wink. Obvious, sure, but I want to see if he’ll do it, if he’ll actually go for it right here, in front of everybody. The need’s written all over him, but does he have the guts?


“Just do it,” I think, but of course I don’t say it, and Lena is right on cue with, “Come on, move!” And the assistant moves. He doesn’t hesitate, just slips his hand under his shirt, then down the front of his jeans. His movements are quick, but not messy; he knows exactly what he needs, and right now, that’s his cock in his hand. I must’ve wound him up tight, because in less than two minutes he’s shuddering, face twisting as he comes in his pants, standing right there behind the lamp, almost shaking with it.


When he comes down, it’s like I can see reality slam back into him: wide eyes, hand still stuffed down his pants, and then he yanks it out like it bit him, glances at his palm. Mortified, he wipes it on his own jeans, fumbles with the light, and pretends nothing happened.


Just like that, everybody’s back to work.


It’s one hour later.


Lena shoots had a way of leaving me in a strange state, always fun, always a little bit out of balance,in this case, a warehouse chill and sweat mixing under my shirt after three fast costume changes. We’re packing up the last bits, my hands a little numb, and then we’re standing in the street outside the busted fence, the city just on the other side. Lena’s kicking gravel and she asks: “So, are you going to that new exhibition?”


I shrug, noncommittal. “At least I was thinking about it.” That’s the honest answer, and Lena knows it. Same as always.


She adjusts her red scarf, probably just for the movement, and keeps her eyes on the sidewalk. “The premise for the artwork sounds interesting. It's the same artist that made all the CCTV shows. You know, the one where he streams live from public toilets, and as soon as the doors open, the feed cuts to black. So you only ever see the before and the after.”


I nod, the cold still stuck to my arms. “I might be there.” That’s all I give her before my bus comes, tires hissing in the wet street. I get on, and the doors close with that familiar chunk, and then Lena is just a bright red spot moving the other way, swallowed up by the street.


Back on the bus, window fogged, my reflection is a ghost, pale and sharp and a little bored. Rain smears the city into streaks, all orange lights and blue steel, the hum of wet tires and people hunched up against the cold. I dig my thumb into the apple until the skin splits, juice running down my knuckles. Sweet, sour, a little like blood. I eat it staring at nothing.

This is Berlin in January, rain up your nose and air that tastes like metal filings, everyone pretending they’re not cold or tired, just glad to be here. I let the city rattle me back to Mitte, where the buildings are cleaner but the people are just as fucked. The lights playing in the water on the street, the glass and concrete, that is the kind of clean that’s only surface deep.

My stop comes too soon, always does, and I shoulder out past some guy in a suit who looks at my tank top and bomber jacket like I’m crazy, little does he know, it’s a look. The bomber jacket’s still damp at the collar, sticking to my neck, but I pop it anyway and stalk down the street toward the cafe.

It’s our usual place, Markus and me. If you want to call something usual when the staff is different every week, but the furniture never moves an inch. Windows steamed, inside it’s all pale wood and chrome, every angle designed for Instagram. There are two girls with laptops open, some dorky art student with ink stains on his cuffs, a couple of tourists with matching scarves and an old dude who might actually be asleep.

Markus is already there, of course, always early, back straight even when he’s just scrolling his phone. He looks up, sees me through the glass, and it’s that little eye roll, like he can’t believe I bothered to show up looking like this. I grin, push through the door, and let the warmth hit me.

The barista is new, at least to me, cute in a gym-bunny way, tight shirt on a chest like a fucking fortress, but with a face that goes soft whenever you smile at him. He says, “Hey there, what can I get you?” and I say, “I could use something hot and strong, you got anything like that?” Just for the sport of it. He blushes, no shit, then glances down at the grinder like he’s afraid of eye contact.

Markus just sighs, not even bothering to hide the smile. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I’m just being polite,” I tell him, sliding into the chair across from his and stretching out, making sure the holes in my tank top catch the light. I know the girls at the side table are looking. I know the art student is pretending not to look. I know the old guy is probably dreaming about being twenty again and reckless.

The barista brings my coffee over, sets it down, spilling just a little, so it beads up on the table. I wink at him. He stares at the drops like they might explode.

“You’re insufferable,” Markus says, but it comes out fond.

I sip my coffee and shoot him a look. “You love it.”

“I do love it,” he admits, folding his arms, “but it’s honestly unfair. You show up looking like you just rolled out of a porn shoot and every person in this place wants to fuck you.”

I glance around, make a show of it, then shrug. “Not my fault I’m a walking thirst trap.”

He barks a laugh, way too loud for the room, and I see the girls at the laptops glance over, then back to their screens, cheeks red.

Markus leans in. “Seriously, though. Doesn’t it get old? All that wanting, all the time?”

I stare at my mug. The coffee’s gone bitter, or maybe I am. “It’s a job. Or it’s like a job. You get good at being the thing people want, even if it’s not really you. Sometimes it’s even fun.” I grin again, but softer this time. “But yeah. Sometimes it’s just noise.”

He’s quiet, letting it sit. That’s what I like about Markus, he doesn’t fill the silence with advice or bullshit. He just lets you say whatever you’re gonna say.

I reach up, run a finger over the rim of my mug. “Most days, I just turn it on, you know? They want a mystery, I give ‘em mystery. They want sex, I give ‘em sex. Nobody wants what’s actually under all that. Not really.”

Markus quirks a brow. “You don’t even know what’s under all that, Noah.”

I snort. “Probably more holes than shirt.” I tug a finger through one of the rips near my side, make a face. “But hey, sells the product.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You ever think about doing something else? Like, I don’t know, actually making art instead of being the art?”

“That’s the dream, isn’t it?” I say, but it comes out kind of harsh, even to my own ears. “I’d love to just make the stuff, not have to be it. But nobody wants to pay you for that unless you already made it, or unless you go viral for shoving an egg up your ass on YouTube. And even then, you gotta give the people a show.”

He looks at me and for a second I think he’s going to say something heavy, like he does sometimes, but instead he just smirks. “You’d be great at the egg thing. You’ve got the ass for it.”

“That’s what the assistant said today,” I shoot back, wiggling my eyebrows. “Well, he didn’t say it, but his hard-on did the talking.”

Markus cackles, full-body, and the barista looks over, like he wants in on the joke but is afraid to ask. Cute. Maybe later.

The rain’s let up a little outside, light shifting from gray to just ugly white. I watch the condensation slide down the glass, fat drops racing each other. Time gets weird in cafes, always has. Like you’re floating in the middle of the city, but nothing out there can touch you.

“We still on for the opening tonight?” Markus asks, picking a crumb off his plate, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah,” I say, “Lena was talking it up. The CCTV guy, the one who did those fucked up toilet streams.” I make a face. “Half the city tuned in to watch people pissing and then the door closes, and the feed goes black. Which is kind of brilliant, if you think about it. All the anticipation, no payoff.”

Markus grins. “Story of your life.”

“If only.” I finish my coffee, set the mug down a little too hard. “He’s got portraits at this show. Supposedly the people who weren’t on camera, the ones who were just outside or waiting. The ones the feed cuts away from.”

He nods, thoughtful. “You ever feel like that? Like you’re only the before and after, never the actual moment?”

I think about it. Harder than I want to, actually. “Sometimes. Not sure which part is worse, the part where everyone’s watching, or the part where they’re not.”

He lets that hang, his gaze going soft. Then he says, “You coming with someone? Or are you going solo, to maximize your admirers?”

I flash a grin. “I go solo. Easier to make an exit that way, or sneak off with someone interesting. You know how these things go. But I’m meeting you inside, right? Got to have someone there who’ll call me on my bullshit.”

Markus lifts his mug in salute. “It’s an honor.”

We sit there a minute, just letting the caffeine do its thing. I watch the girls at the laptop, see one of them pull up my Insta, try to hide it with her palm but too late, I catch her eye and she goes bright pink. I wink, because of course I do. Give them what they want.

Even the art kid is sneaking glances, pen tapping on the table. I stretch out, flex my legs, let the muscles pop a little, because why not? Fame is a currency and I’m not above spending it.

Markus sees the whole thing, snorts. “You’re shameless.”

“I’m a product, Markus. Gotta keep the packaging interesting.” I lean in, drop my voice. “But you know, sometimes I wish it was more than that. Like something real. Not just the show.”

He nods, not laughing now. “I get it. Sometimes it’s easier to just be what people want. Harder to let them see anything else.”

“Yeah, well.” I rub a thumb over my jaw, think about the way the assistant’s face went slack when he came in his jeans, the silence afterwards, how nobody talks about it, not really. “Maybe there isn’t anything else.”

Markus blinks, like he’s surprised to hear me say it. “With you, I don’t believe that for a second.”

I shrug. “Believe what you want.”

He tilts his head. “What about you? Who are you outside all of this?”

I gesture around the room, lazy. “The same. The one people look at, and the one who likes it when they look.” I stretch, arms overhead, make my ribs cut shadows through my shirt holes. “I’m not complicated, Markus, I’m a window display. That’s the whole deal.”

He just shakes his head, picks at a napkin, tearing it into strips like he's unraveling something more important than conversation. “You ever gonna let somebody look past the window?”

I consider it, fingers drumming on the table. “People get what they pay for.” My grin's sharper than the edge on my jaw right now, but it’s not mean, just true. “No one’s ever paid for the real deal.”

Markus leans back, studying me like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth arguing with. Spoiler: I’m not. “Maybe you should up your price.”

“That’s what the OnlyFans boys said, too,” I deadpan, and he snorts coffee out his nose, which is honestly the highlight of my day so far.

Café air’s thick with toasted bread and burnt beans, sweat and wet jackets steaming off bodies. I can feel the stares still, sticking to my shoulders, crawling down my spine. The barista’s cleaning the counter but keeps glancing over, eyes flicking away when I look up, and the girls by the window are whispering, there’s a phone angled my direction. I give them a little tongue behind my teeth, just for the thrill of it.

Markus wipes his mouth, still grinning. “You going to bring that energy to the show tonight?”

“Depends on the crowd.” I rest my chin on my palm, watching condensation crawl down the glass like fat tears. “If it’s all creeps and try-hards, maybe I’ll just drink the free wine and ghost. If there’s something interesting, who knows?”

He makes a face. “You’ll go home with the first person who tells you you’re more than pretty.”

I tap his foot under the table. “Only if they’re hot. Or rich. Or both.”

That gets a laugh, low and real, and the old man across the room stirs, cracks open an eye, then goes right back to sleep. I guess I’m not his type.

We talk a little more, random shit, mostly about nothing, which is how I like it. Easy. He tells me about some fucked up lecture at the uni, I tell him about Lena’s assistant and the living definition of ‘lack of chill.’ By the time we’re done, the coffee’s cold and the rain’s stopped, streets going grey and shiny, like someone peeled the plastic off the world.

We split up outside, Markus straight to the U-Bahn, me wandering slow back through Mitte, jacket collar flipped up, walking the line between ‘artfully disheveled’ and ‘should be arrested for indecency.’ My phone buzzes, Lena sending me a shot from this morning already: my back, muscles sharp in the light, jacket slipping off, face proud and empty at the same time. Good photo. I save it, don’t reply.

Spend the next couple hours killing time, loafing around, pretending to window shop, mostly just people-watching. There’s a satisfaction in it, seeing the way people move, the glances they think are subtle, the way eyes lock then dart away. I get checked out three times in the bakery line, once by a guy in a suit who looks like he’d pay me to step on his face. I file that away for later, just in case he shows up at the gallery.

Back in the apartment, everything’s quiet as a church, except not holy, just hollow. I strip down, towel off the last bit of factory sweat, then change shirts, fresh tank top but still full of holes, pull on jeans so tight they should be illegal, and lace up boots that have seen more clubs than sidewalks. Look in the mirror: hair perfect, skin glowing, blue eyes cutting. It’s all armor, but it’s the only kind I own.

I leave the apartment without turning on the lights. Don’t need to see the empty to know it’s there.

The gallery is in a dead part of Kreuzberg, kind of place where you can’t tell if it’s open or condemned. Tonight, though, there’s chain-smoked people in the doorway, all of them doing the ‘I don’t care but please notice me’ shuffle. I fit right in. Markus is already waiting inside, tucked by the wall scanning the crowd like a bouncer at a sex club.

He raises his eyebrows at my outfit. “You look like trouble.”

“I’m not, unless you ask nice.” I wink, then scope out the bar. There’s a row of cheap sparkling wine, all poured into plastic flutes that are supposed to look fancy. I grab two. The bartender’s a girl with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up her neck, I catch her eye and she gives me a half-smirk, definitely my kind of person.

Back to Markus, hand him a glass, clink in the air. “To art. Or whatever the fuck this is.”

He laughs, “To whatever the fuck this is,” and we drink, and the bubbles burn my tongue, taste like acid candy, but it’s cold and that’s what counts.

Crowd’s a mess, the usual mix: art world creeps in turtlenecks, baby gays in mesh, old Berliners who look like they could bench press me, gallery girls in black. It’s loud, warm, bodies close together, all of it lit by fake neon and the blue pulse from the video screens. The work on the walls is actually kind of good: hyper-real portraits, blown up huge, faces caught mid-blink or mid-thought, looks of longing or disgust or nothing at all. Some are cropped so close you just get lips, or a single eye, or a mouth. Every shot is from outside the action, like the photos are watching you, not the other way around.

We drift through the crowd, Markus and me, shoulder to shoulder, pretending not to notice the way people watch us. I catch at least one guy whispering to his friend, and the friend is giving me bedroom eyes over the rim of his glass, so I give him the signature slow-smile, the one that says, ‘maybe, if you’re lucky, but probably not.’

Markus is better at the art talk than me, but I know how to play the part. I hang back sometimes, let him do the heavy lifting, just soak up the scene. After a while, we separate, I let myself get lost in the maze of faces and color.

Find myself in front of this one painting, big canvas, mostly just shades of gray and a flash of yellow. It’s a woman, but you can only tell if you look hard, her mouth open like she’s about to scream or laugh, you never know which. There’s a knot of people talking about it, voices stacking up:

“I think it’s about the fragmentation of public and private self,” some guy with glasses says, wearing a scarf even indoors.

“No, it’s more like a commentary on surveillance, you know, how you’re seen when you least expect it,” another says, sipping wine like it’s a prop.

Someone else: “She looks scared, but maybe it’s just the way the light hits. Or maybe she’s performing the fear, for the camera?”

Nobody wants to be wrong. Nobody wants to be boring.

I step in, voice low but confident, like I’ve got a secret. “It’s the moment right before anything happens, before you scream or laugh or run. That’s what people pay for, the tension. Not the release. The almost.” I gesture with my glass, “Like, the art isn’t what’s happening, it’s what you think will happen. That edge, where you can’t tell if it’s pleasure or panic.”

They look at me like I just dropped acid truth on the whole room. Guy with scarf nods, slow, like he’s reconsidering his whole taste level. “That’s… yeah, that’s it, wow.”

I shrug, just a flick of the shoulder. “Or maybe it’s just a hot chick with a weird mouth. I dunno. Both work.”

One of them laughs, the ice totally broken, and I can feel the attention slide over me, warm and heavy. That’s the good stuff. I soak it up, let them keep talking, but mostly just listen, how people bend themselves around an idea if you say it with the right tone.

After that, I wander. There’s a couple by the sculpture in the back, both tall, sharp-boned, wearing matching boots. They give me the look, then look away, but I walk over anyway, lean against the pedestal like I belong.

“I gotta know,” I say, voice just above the music, “did you guys plan the boots? Or is it just a telepathy thing?”

one of the guys grin, teeth sharp. “We like to coordinate. It’s efficient for things later.”

his partner, slick hair and silver ring, just watches me, eyes dark and hungry. “You here for the art or the afterparty?”

“I go where the vibe is better,” I tell him, letting the words hang. There’s an energy between us, the kind that could turn into something if I wanted it to. But I don’t, not tonight. I want the flirt, not the finish.

They laugh, and we chat a little, swapping bullshit about the art, the city, who’s actually famous in berlin vs. just famous for being naked on instagram, which is totally a category now, I should know. One of the guys with the boots works in a gallery out west, the other is a DJ on the weekends, they both have hands like switchblades, all sharp nails and silver rings, and when they move, it’s like they’re pulling a current behind them, static energy in the way their boots thud against the cement floor.

“I’m Noah,” I say, like the name comes with a guarantee, and the guy with the slicked hair gives me a look, up and down, like he’s checking if there’s a return policy. “Yeah, we know who you are,” he says, but not in a mean way, more like ‘finally someone interesting.’ His voice is low, not as deep as he probably hopes, but he’s got this way of drawing out the vowels, like he wants the words to hang around longer than I do.

They ask me what I think of the art, real question, and for a second I consider bullshitting, but then I just say what comes out. “I think it’s hot,” I tell them, “like, not in a porn way, but there’s something about seeing people right before they break character. Little freeze frame of wanting to be seen vs. wanting to be invisible.”

DJ guy gets it. “It’s like when you’re on stage and you know the crowd is watching, but you pretend it’s just you and the music.”

“Exactly,” I say, even though I’ve never been on a stage that wasn’t a platform in someone’s living room at 2am, but whatever, point stands. “It’s all about the almost.”

Slicked-hair is still watching me, eyes never really blinking, like he’s waiting for something worth remembering. “You coming to the afterparty?” he asks, voice dropping half an octave. “If you are, we’ll save a spot for you.”

For a second, I think about it. If I say yes, I know exactly how that plays out: dark room, sweat, hands everywhere, a few hours of pretending it’s possible to be wanted and nothing else. I almost say yes, let the ‘sure, why not’ slip out, but I stop myself. “I’ll see how the night goes,” I say, easy, noncommittal, “maybe I’ll run into you there, if you’re lucky.”

DJ guy grins, teeth just a little crooked, which makes it better. “We’re always lucky.” He rakes a finger down the line of my arm, not even subtle about it, then backs off, already bored, already onto the next thrill. I love it. I hate it. I want to bottle that energy and drink it so I never have to feel empty again.

They peel off, boots clacking, and I drift back toward where I last saw Markus, but he’s gone, probably outside calling his boyfriend or maybe just taking a break from all the beautiful people. I wander, let myself get swallowed up by the gallery, which sounds poetic but is actually just elbows and wet jackets, everyone sweating under the blue light, everyone talking like they’re afraid to run out of clever things to say.

I lean on a window ledge and catch sight of a guy I recognize from a magazine shoot last fall. He’s taller than me, shaved head, jaw like an anvil, and his shirt has these little dots all over it, polka dots but make it Berlin. He sees me, smirks, raises his glass. “Surprised to see you at a place like this,” he says, like we have some kind of history. I don’t remember his name, but I remember his hands, how careful they were when he adjusted the collar of my shirt backstage, like he was scared of breaking something.

I give him a slow once-over, because he’s earned it, then say, “I go where the drinks are free and the company is hot. So basically, everywhere.” He laughs, for real, leans in close so I catch the scent of his cologne, its spicy, expensive, probably costs more than my rent.

“You still working with Lena?” he asks, and I nod. “Every time she calls, I show up. I’m her main subject, it’s a burden but I bear it.”

He grins, teeth white, tongue flicking along the edge. “Maybe I’ll come to one of her shoots, see for myself.”

“You’d be disappointed,” I say, “it’s mostly her yelling and me getting naked in weird places.”

“That sounds exactly like my type of party.”

We trade a few more lines, the kind that don’t really mean anything except ‘I see you, you see me, maybe later we’ll see a whole lot more.’ He gives me his number, I plug it into my phone under ‘Dot Shirt Guy,’ even though I’ll probably never call.

I don’t want to go home. Not really. Home is just a box with my name on it, a bed where I dream about nothing, a fridge that hums louder than anyone I’ve ever slept with. But I also don’t want to be here, not with the noise pressing in on my skull, not with the way the lights make everyone look like beautiful ghosts.

I find Markus again, finally, he’s by the exit, scrolling his phone but looking up every time someone walks out, like he’s waiting for me. He’s got a look on his face, not sad exactly, just a little tired. We stand together in the doorway, letting the night air hit us, crisp and sharp, cutting through the sweat on my neck.

“That was, honestly, a better show than I expected,” he says, flicking his cigarette to life even though it’s technically not allowed. “You work the room like it owes you money.”

“It does,” I tell him, and mean it. “I’m just collecting interest.”

He laughs, smoke curling around his lips. “You leaving with anyone, or you going to keep being the most eligible bachelor in Berlin?”

I shake my head. “Not tonight. I’m off the clock.”

Markus gives me this look, like he knows exactly what that means. “You wanna grab a kebab or something, or are you just gonna walk it off?”

I think about the kebab, the grease, the heat, the way the wrappers cling to your fingers, but I’m not hungry, not for that anyway. “I’ll walk,” I say, shrug, “clear my head. You go home to your boyfriend, tell him I was a perfect gentleman.”

He snorts, flicks the stub of his cigarette into the gutter. “He’ll never believe it. Text me if you get bored.”

I nod, watch him disappear down the street, shoulders hunched against the cold, moving fast like there’s something at home worth running toward. Lucky bastard.

I stand in the doorway for a second, just watching the traffic, the way the cars flare their brakelights in the puddles, all neon red and blue, painting the whole street like one of those bad club flyers. There’s people out here, too, lighting up, laughing too loud, bumping into each other because nobody wants to go home alone. I light up a cigarette I bummed off Markus earlier, let the smoke burn my throat, and try to pretend I can’t feel the ache settling somewhere behind my ribs.

I cut through the side streets, shoulders hunched, not because I’m cold but because I feel like if I make myself small enough, I won’t be so fucking visible. It never works, but I try it anyway. There’s a couple making out in a shadow by the door to the Späti, a guy in a beanie who looks like he’s been awake for eight days, a girl on her phone screaming into the night in rapid-fire Danish. Nobody notices me, or maybe they do and don’t care.

I walk past the old bakery, still lit up even though it’s closed, the smell of sweet bread and burnt sugar leaking out from the vents. There’s a cat sitting in the window, staring at me like it knows something I don’t. Maybe it does.

Outside my apartment, the street is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. I flick the half-finished smoke into the gutter and take the stairs two at a time, not bothering to check the mail because what’s the point. Inside, the air is stale, smells like wet concrete and whatever my upstairs neighbor is cooking, heavy on the onion.

I shed my jacket, drop it on the chair where I’ll forget about it until it starts to smell. Kick off my boots, peel off the tank top, stand in front of the mirror just for a second. The light from the street slices through the blinds, makes zebra stripes across my shoulders. I look good. I know I look good. But the eyes in the mirror look tired, blue but not bright, just kind of flat. Like a photograph overexposed, all detail gone except for the edges.

The apartment is so fucking quiet. Even when I open the fridge, hoping for something I forgot, there’s nothing but a half bottle of mineral water and a lemon that’s growing its own ecosystem in the crisper. I pour a glass, let it fizz against my tongue, lean on the counter and stare at the empty walls.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be one of those people who hang art. Paintings, prints, even dumb motivational quotes. I could put up the photo Lena sent me earlier, a print of my own back, the curve of my spine catching the light, all muscle and shadow. But then it would just be me staring at me, and even I don’t need that. So I leave it, phone face down on the counter.

The city hums outside, distant but constant, and I can feel the weight of all the nights I’ve ever spent alone stacking up inside my chest. I try to shake it off, but it sticks. I try to tell myself this is what I wanted, the freedom, the space, the endless maybe of it all. But it’s hard to believe when the only thing answering me back is the tick of the old fridge and the shush of cars three floors down.

I take a shower, hot as I can stand, scrub off the gallery, the sweat, the fingerprints. For a second, with the water pounding my skull, I almost feel clean. Almost. But when I step out, the mirror is fogged, and the face that stares back through the haze is still my own, still hungry, still alone.

I towel off, drag on sweats and nothing else, flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks just to give my brain something to chew on. I think about Markus, about the couple in the boots, about Dot Shirt Guy and the way every conversation was a brush with something real but always turned slippery at the last second. Nothing sticks. Nothing holds.