mari ✮⋆˙

i have seen way too many people that think joost and the "holy trinity" are the hottest people to roam the earth (which is fine, i'm down bad for joost too), but then they assume that europeans are just the hottest and the best of races. at a point it starts to feel like less of a preference and more of some weird race thing. (same with people calling joost "the best rapper," like we can all have our own opinions but, really?)

i love writing fics, listening to his music, wishing i could just be granted five minutes in a club with him, but i don't think i would ever say european men (european specially, not dutch) are objectively hotter/better

Joost was thrilled. The past few days he's been constantly buzzing with energy - texting you every little Update, sending you the weather reports from Leeuwarden like it was breaking news

When you got on the train from Amsterdam to Leeuwarden, he was basically bouncing up and down in his seat,it was adorable to say the least.

After two and a half hours of him not letting you sleep, you finally arrived in fryslân.

You stretched your arms with a yawn, still a bit dazed from the ride, when Joost gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

"Wolkom yn Fryslân," he said,not being able to contain his big, giddy grin.

You couldn’t help but laugh. "Hope you won’t forget Dutch here," you teased, your faint chuckle barely being heard. He chuckled, already pulling your suitcase along like he was on a mission.

His response?"Hope you’ll learn some Frysk here," playfully bumping his shoulder into yours while talking.

You gave him a look — the kind that said "don’t push it" but also "you’re kinda cute for trying."

"Let’s just find the hotel first," you muttered, trying (and failing) to hide your laugh.

After finally waving over a taxi (after 4 failed attempts) you arrive at the hotel

Joost held the hotel door open with a small, over-the-top bow. "After you, mijn koningin."

You stepped inside with a huff of amusement. "You’re so unserious."

The lobby smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish, warm light spilling onto the tiled floors. It was calm, quiet — a sharp contrast to the buzz of the train and Joost’s constant narrating of every passing cow.

"Not bad," he said, nudging your shoulder as you both walked to the front desk.

The check-in didn’t take long. Joost chatted casually with the receptionist in Dutch, tossing you a little smile now and then like he was proud of showing off. Within minutes, you were riding up in the small elevator, Joost humming softly beside you.

The hotel room wasn’t huge, but it was clean and warm. A big bed sat in the middle, fluffy duvets folded neatly, and a small window gave a peek at the street below.

As soon as the door shut behind you, Joost flopped onto the bed with a dramatic groan.

"You’ve been here five seconds," you said, setting your bag down by the chair.

"And yet," he replied muffled into the pillow, "I am one with this bed now."

You let out a quiet laugh, slipping your shoes off. "I’m gonna freshen up quick. Then maybe going out for dinner?"

He raised a thumbs up without moving. "Only if I don’t fall asleep first."

"don't worry i'll wake you up" you say, walking off to the bathroom.

"can't make any promises I'll wake up" he joked, his face now turned to side on the pillow.

As you got out of the bathroom and settled in front of the mirror they had on a desk, his eyes watched you intently, after a minute he spoke up "Hey, can I help..?"

You looked over your shoulder, raising a brow.

"My face isn’t a canvas for experiments, Joost."

He grinned, already getting up and walking over. "Oh come on, I’m very precise. Steady hands. Musical hands, actually."

You rolled your eyes, but handed him the blush anyway. "Alright then, maestro. Impress me."

He took it with exaggerated seriousness, tapping a bit too much powder onto the brush. His tongue peeked out slightly as he focused, gently dabbing your cheek.

"That’s not bad," you said, checking the mirror.

"That’s not great either," he replied, examining his work critically. "Round two?"

A laugh bubbled out of you as he leaned in again, totally absorbed.

"Okay okay," you said, taking the blush back.

"That’s enough artistry for one afternoon."

He flopped dramatically onto the bed again, arms stretched out. "Now I need to get ready."

You smirked, tossing a clean shirt at him. "Then chop chop, sleepyhead."

While you were finishing up your makeup, he pulled his suitcase open and started carefully inspecting each item, fingers grazing the fabrics like he was making an important decision. You glanced over your shoulder. He looked almost too serious about it.

"Planning a fashion show?" you teased.

He didn’t even look up. "This is a fashion show."

A beat passed, then— "Liefjeee, can I pick your outfit today?"

You raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "You trust yourself with that responsibility?"

He gasped dramatically. "Excuse me? I am a visionary."

You chuckled, and before you could even respond, he was already halfway into your suitcase like a man on a mission. Holding up one top, then another, squinting like he was analyzing the emotional backstory of each piece.

"Okay but this color? This would eat. And with those jeans? No one’s ready."

He kept going—five whole minutes of pure hype, throwing compliments like confetti while tossing clothes onto the bed. "You don’t understand how lucky the world is to witness you in this fit," he said, placing his hand over his heart like it physically pained him.

Eventually, you just flopped back on the bed, laughing. "You should be illegal."

"And yet," he smirked, offering you the chosen top like it was sacred, "here I am."

Before you could even argue, he was already halfway into your suitcase, flipping through your clothes like a stylist on a tight deadline. He held up a top, squinted dramatically, then tossed it aside. Then he froze with another in his hands, turned to you with a grin, and in the most exaggerated American accent said,

"Okay but this color? This would eat. And the jeans? No one’s ready."

"let's just go out already"

Arrived at the restaurant, it was soft, cozy, the lights dim, the chairs mismatched, the air reeking of good food, the sound of people talking all over the place.

Joost looked around and let out a satisfied little "Hmm", nodding to himself.

"This is niceeee," he grinned, sliding into the seat across from you. "You see that lamp? It’s crooked. That means the food slaps."

You laughed, shaking your head. "That’s not how restaurants work."

"It is exactly how restaurants work," he shot back, already reaching for the menu but barely glancing at it. His eyes flicked up to meet yours again.

He reached across the table, gently plucking a crumb off your cheek with a teasing little smirk. "Messy eater," he said softly, but his thumb lingered just a second longer than needed.

You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh, but your skin still burned where he’d touched. "Better than loud chewer," you shot back, watching his grin deepen.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The clatter and chatter around you blurred out, like you were sitting in your own little world. You could feel his gaze settle—slow, thoughtful, warm.

He leaned in just a bit, arms crossed on the table, voice lower now. "Did I tell you how happy I am you’re here?"

You smiled, heart catching a little. "You might’ve mentioned it once or twice."

It made the candle between you flicker like it knew something was about to bloom..

To finish off you each got a glass of wine, or eventually it'd turn into two..?

He raised his glass slightly, "To Fryslân—and to having you here."

You clinked yours against his. "To Joost dragging me to the middle of nowhere."

He laughed, that full, carefree kind that always made your chest flutter. "Rude, but fair."

A few sips in, the buzz started kicking in—warm, cozy, a little light-headed. He rested his chin in his hand, eyes soft as they scanned over you. "You look really good tonight," he said, casual but sincere.

Your cheeks flushed. "That the wine talking?"

He grinned. "Nope. That’s been brewing all day."

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but it was no use. The mood had shifted—still playful, but there was something else simmering underneath. His hand found yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

The air outside had cooled, but neither of you felt it—your cheeks warm from the wine and something heavier hanging between you. He called an Uber, his hand brushing your lower back as he guided you in.

. His hand slid over, resting gently on your thigh. Warm. Intentional. You didn’t look at him—just leaned slightly closer, and that was enough.

His thumb started tracing slow circles. Not fast. Not urgent. Just… there.

You glanced down at where his hand sat. "Getting bold, aren’t we?"

His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "Been thinking about you since before dinner. You looked too good."

The car turned a corner, headlights casting brief shadows over his face. His expression didn’t change—still that same soft hunger.

You bit your lip and said nothing.

The rest of the ride was quiet.

Heavy with silence that wasn't awkward—it was charged. Anticipation threading between glances, between breaths.

When the driver finally stopped in front of the hotel, Joost didn’t move right away. He looked at you. You looked at him. And this time, you were the one who reached first.

"Let’s go."

Entering the hotel, he grabbed your hand, interlocking your fingers with his before stepping into an open elevator, pulling you in behind him.

The elevator ride? A whole experience.

He picked you up effortlessly, lips crashing into yours—he didn’t feel like bending down when he could just hold you instead. You melted into it, your mouths moving fast, kisses messy, eager. Tongue brushing your bottom lip, asking—no, begging—for permission.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped out like it was nothing, still holding you, still kissing you when he could. At the door of your suite, he fumbled with the card, finally managing to unlock it without letting go of you.

The second you were in the room, he kicked the door shut behind him and carried you to the bed—surprisingly gentle, like he’d been rough with everything except you.

"God, been waiting all day for this, schatje," he groaned, climbing onto the bed with you. His hands cupped your cheeks as he pulled you into another kiss, deep and eager. One hand trailed down to the neckline of your dress, tugging it down your shoulders, his fingers a little shaky with anticipation.

He broke the kiss for a breath, a string of saliva still connecting the two of you. "You know you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen," he murmured, eyes drinking you in. That smile you gave him was his favourite.

You didn’t reply—just crashed your lips into his again. Your hands worked at his belt, fumbling slightly from the rush. He grinned into the kiss, helping you unclasp it with one smooth motion, letting you unzip his pants. He lifted his hips slightly, letting you slide them down with ease, leaving him in his boxers

Finally separating for some much needed air, he was quick to take off his shirt, leaving him in only boxers. But his eyes never left yours. "Y’know I think this is a bit uneven," he murmured, voice dropping as he laid you back against the pillows, trailing kisses from your collarbone downward. His fingers moved to unclasp your bra with practiced ease, and once it slipped off, his boxers were gone too—when, you didn’t even notice.

His eyes lingered, dark and hungry, fingers lightly tracing down your sides. "Zo fucking mooi…" he murmured, voice low and hoarse, like he couldn't believe you were real. His mouth followed his hands, lips pressing hot kisses down your chest, nipping gently, sucking a mark just above your heart.

He decided to take it a step further, putting one of his hands on your little panties, pushing it to the side, thumb circling your clit.

When your breath hitched, he grinned against your skin. "Je houdt hiervan, hè?"

(You like this,don't you?)

You could only nod, whimpering a soft "Joost…"

His hands slid lower, palming the back of your thighs before yanking you closer with a strength that had you gasping. "Been thinking about this all fucking day," he muttered, voice rough now, impatient. "Every time you smiled, every time you leaned in—I wanted to ruin you right there."

Then he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough to tease, "Mag ik…?" (Can I...?)

The way you whispered "alsjeblieft"—needy and breathless—had him growling low in his throat.

As his fingers dipped under the waistband, he paused again—just for a moment—pressing a kiss to your hip. Then he leaned over, opening the bedside drawer like it was the most casual thing in the world. His hand returned holding a small silver packet, flashing you a grin that was far too pleased with himself.

"You put those there?" you asked, breathless, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

He chuckled, tearing the foil with his teeth. "Misschien," he said with a shrug, his accent thick and teasing. "Let’s just say… I had a good feeling about tonight."

"You’re unbelievable."

"Unbelievably smart," he corrected, leaning in to kiss you again, slower this time. “And definitely not about to take chances with the prettiest girl in Fryslân.”

He laid you down on your back, pulling back from the kiss.

He tore the wrapper open fast with his teeth, sliding the condom on with a low grunt. His eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, and for a second he just looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world he could even see.

But halfway through, when you were clinging to him, gasping into his mouth, he pulled back slightly, panting hard.

"kan het niet meer, schatje.. " (can’t do it anymore, baby.. ) he whispered, voice breaking into Dutch from the haze "Baby.. mag ik.." “Zonder… wil je dat?”

(Without… do you want that?)

The need in his voice made your stomach flip. You nodded, tugging him closer again. He pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing shaky, before pulling off the condom and slipping right back in—both of you moaning at the feeling of it, raw, real.

You could feel the knot in your stomach forming, nails digging into his back, god, this felt good. You barely had time to think before he spoke, voice rough against your ear,

"On your hands and knees, liefje."

You blinked up at him, not immediately reacting, your mind hazy from what you had just experienced. He chuckled lowly at your dazed state, his hand sliding down your back.

"Kom op, op je handen en knieën," he repeated, firmer this time,the Dutch rolling off his tongue so easily made you crazy.

Without even giving you a second to recover, Joost gripped your hips, lining himself up again.

You barely caught your breath before he pushed into you in one deep thrust, knocking a whimper out of you.

Joost’s fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave little bruises for tomorrow.

You barely had time to catch a breath again before he pulled you back onto him, forcing himself deeper inside you than you thought was even possible.

The new angle had you arching deeper than ever before, a broken cry spilling from your lips.

It was overwhelming, the stretch, the fullness, the wet heat between your legs — your mind went entirely blank.

"Fuck," Joost groaned above you, his voice wrecked and low. "Taking me so good, schatje."

You could only whimper in response, thighs shaking, body helpless against the way he used you — still so gentle, still so loving, but so goddamn much.

He slowed down for a second, keeping you pinned there, buried as deep inside you as he could go.

His thumb found your clit again, rubbing sloppy, desperate circles, pushing you over that edge again, before you even had a chance to recover.

The only thing you could hear was his heavy breathing, the obscene sounds of your bodies, and the low, messy praises falling from his lips.

"mooi... mijn meisje," (Pretty... my girl) he groaned, voice absolutely wrecked with need.

His fingers dug into your waist, guiding you back onto him, setting a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping filling the room.

Your arms gave out, forehead pressing into the mattress as he rutted into you, the stretch almost overwhelming.

You barely registered his hand snaking around to your front, rubbing messy circles over your clit, chasing your second orgasm.

“Kom voor me, schatje. Laat me voelen.”

(Cum for me, schatje. Let me feel you.)

His words were low, desperate — begging.

When you finally came, clenching around him, Joost cursed under his breath, thrusts growing uneven before he buried himself deep one final time, spilling inside you with a broken moan.

He stayed inside for a moment, panting against your back, almost collapsing over you.

When he finally pulled out, he couldn't help but watch, hypnotized, as his cum slowly leaked out of you, thumb gently pressing against your entrance to push it back in.

"Zo vol van mij," (So full of me.)

Your body was shaking by the time he thrusted into you again, and again, grinding himself deep inside you, spilling into you with a broken groan against your neck.

The feeling of him filling you up had you shuddering, tipping into another orgasm you didn't even know you could reach anymore — a third, messier, sloppier high that left you sobbing into the sheets.

You could feel it, his cum leaking out of you already, your thighs trembling from the overstimulation, but he didn’t pull away immediately — he stayed there, chest pressed to your back, his hand still splayed wide over your stomach like he was claiming you.

Finally, after a few heavy breaths, Joost pulled out with a groan, and you whimpered at the loss.

He smirked, grabbing a tissue half-heartedly from the nightstand to wipe you down a little — though his thumb still lazily spread the mess over your inner thigh with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Ruined you," he murmured, the grin on his face visible.

You were too fucked out to argue.

Instead, you just flopped back onto the bed, boneless and hazy.

Joost chuckled softly, rolling over onto his back next to you.

He reached over to the nightstand again — this time, for a crumpled pack of camel blue.

He lit one, took a slow drag, and then turned his head to look at you, messy and glowing in the soft hotel room light.

He offered the pack toward you with a satisfied look on his face.

You turn the TV on for background noise while cleaning. You’ve done that countless time, not just for company, but because it helped your Dutch more than any textbook ever could. Month by month, word by word, you improved. And now you’re proud to say you understand so much more — the evening news, the movies, even the lyrics of some songs— all of it helped you reach the higher level, the level that kept your job secure and your life stable. 

It’s been over five years since you first got here, and you’ve almost forgotten what it was like to live anywhere else. You’ve reached that point where you feel like a stranger in your home country. It’s still your home, but every time you go back, you miss the narrow streets of Amsterdam and the coziness of your apartment. You miss the life you have here. Somewhere along the way, this city, this apartment, this life — they stopped being temporary. They became home.

You glance at your vibrating phone and see a message from Kevin — the guy you’ve been seeing for the last two months. You haven’t defined the relationship yet, but it’s definitely heading in that direction, and making it official seems to be on the horizon. He’s gone on a work trip and you won’t see him for the next few weeks — a first test for your relationship. You really thought it might work this time.

It’s been a long time since you dated someone seriously. There were flings, brief connections, few men who hovered around the edge of something more, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree to a relationship — they just didn’t seem like the kind of guy you’d want to spend your life with. It’s not that you were too demanding — you just wanted someone that could hold a good conversation, someone you knew you wouldn’t get bored with. So far none of the guys you met felt like that kind of person. Some of your friends laughed, saying you were looking for your prince charming, but all you wanted someone you’d feel that click with.

“This Saturday, Joost Klein will represent the Netherlands in The Eurovision Song Contest” you hear from the TV. You freeze mid-step, mop still in hand, your eyes locking on the screen.

Joost. 

It’s been three years since that last goodbye — him standing in the rain on the stairs just below your apartment, the final words hanging in the air between you. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet also it could’ve happened just last week. You watched him on TV, wearing that ridiculous blue suit that he would’ve laughed at back then. You watch him, stunned by the transformation. It’s hard to reconcile this version of him with the boy you used to know.

He was still that funny, bubbly guy, who lit up every room he entered. But when you caught glimpses of him on TV or scrolling through clips online, you noticed how much he had matured. The themes in his songs had shifted — less bragging, more vulnerability. He spoke openly about things he used to bury under jokes. 

He still looked like your Joost in so many ways, but the man on the screen had evolved beyond the boy you once knew. You wonder if he would say the same about you.

After you broke up, he tried to contact you a few times — an invitation to his album launch party, a drunk “I miss you” text or a whole paragraph about how much he still loved you. As much as it hurt, you didn’t answer, afraid of being pulled back into the toxic cycle. You knew too well where that road led. 

Eventually, the messages became less frequent, until they stopped altogether. 

Now, he was just a memory — a familiar face in a music video, a name you dropped  when the conversation with new friends turned to music. Sometimes people got excited, pressing you for stories: “What was he really like?”, “Was he that nice offstage?” You’d smile politely and offer the safest line you knew — that he was a good guy, things just didn’t work out. You didn’t want to ruin his career, or spread rumors, so you kept the details of your relationship to yourself. 

You still had that warm feeling in your chest whenever you saw his face — as much as you’d moved on from the relationship, he was a part of your history, one of the people who helped shape the person you are now. You forgave him a long time ago, and there wasn’t any bad blood between you. There was no grudge, no resentment — but also, no need to reopen that door. 

You truly wished him well. It made you oddly proud to see him thriving, evolving, turning his pain into songs that were loved by so many people. His music was richer now, more layered — like he’d finally started to understand himself. He was a good guy, at heart. Just someone trying to quiet the noise in his own head. Weren’t we all?

You turn off the TV and wonder if you should order some food — you really don't feel like cooking today. But the neglected vegetables in your fridge were starting to look a little too wild, like they might start a rebellion if left alone much longer. 

You spend the rest of the day cooking, watching a movie, and updating your CV — you really wanted to find a new job. 

You’re just about to pour yourself a glass of wine, when a message pops up on your phone:

Clara: “OMG, Have you heard? Disqualification???” 

Your brows knit together in confusion. Disqualification? From what?

“What?” You quickly type back.

She sends you a link to an article about Joost’s disqualification from the Eurovision Song Contest. You have to sit down to read through it, each sentence more unbelievable than the last. Threatening behavior, lack of control, violence, issues with other delegations.

Your eyebrows raise higher and higher as you read, unable to believe what you’re seeing.

It all seems ridiculous. You could believe this about anyone — but not Joost. It just didn’t add up. 

This was what drew you to him from the very beginning — he was so gentle that you never once felt in danger when he was around. Even when he was drunk, he was never aggressive or violent. If anything, you might have expected that kind of behavior from yourself, but never from him He never got into fights; violence went against everything he stood for. Sure, he enjoyed a heated argument, a sharp discussion, but it was always confined to words — never crossed the line into something violent. 

He must be devastated. The thought crosses your mind, and a wave of sudden sadness washes over you. You haven’t felt that in a while, but knowing Joost — how dedicated he was to everything that he did, how he always poured an insane amount of effort into his work — you know he must feel horrible now. 

You remember how hard he fought for that spot at the Eurovision. For so long. Not for the fame, but for the meaning. And now his dream — his thoughtful tribute to his parents — it’s all gone. 

You can’t help but scroll through your photos, searching for the last picture you took together. You wonder if he has someone to wipe the tears from his face. You know he has incredible friends, who always supported him, but part of you hopes he has someone to give him that kind of unconditional love. Someone whose arms feel like home. Because you know — more than anyone — how much he needed that now.

Unintentionally, you open your messages — and then you freeze.

Should you write him? He’s going through hard time — he should get as much support as possible, right?

Yeah, but maybe that support should come from his friends — not from his ex who hasn’t talked to him in, what — three years? That can’t be undone with one sympathetic text. 

Wouldn’t it look stupid? Like you were just looking for an excuse to talk to him? Or worse, like you were being nosy, trying to find out what happened?

You bite the inside of your cheek and scroll to the last message from him — a happy birthday from last year. You didn’t even bother to respond. And now you’re going to ask him about his feelings? 

Would he even recognize your number? Would he read it and laugh? Or worse — feel nothing?

“Hey, i just heard the news, are you okay? Do you need to talk?”

You reread it a couple of times. 

No, it sounds stupid. Need to talk? Who are you, his therapist? You delete the last sentence. Then retype it. Then delete it again. Every version feels wrong — too formal, too cold, too personal, too much. 

You sigh, letting the phone rest in your hand — there it is again, that space between wanting to care and not knowing if you have right to.

“Hey, i just heard about the DQ. Are you holding up?”

You delete it quickly. Of course he’s not holding up. 

You sigh. It feels like no matter what you write, it will sound stupid.

But it’s just a message, a couple of words on a screen. Why are your hands shaking?

“Hey. Is everything alright? Are you ok?”

It still doesn’t sound right, but it’s not going to get any better. But no amount of rewriting will make it perfect. It’s not about saying the right thing. It’s just about letting him know you’re here, if he needs it.

You put the phone down, suddenly unsure again. Maybe you should’t send anything at all. Maybe this is about you, not him. Maybe silence is a better choice.

You stare at the screen for a few seconds. 

Oh fuck it, it’s just a message.

You hit send. 

Delivered.

Now you wait. You stare at the screen, and the more time passes, the more you start to believe he’s not going to answer. Maybe he changed his number. But more likely - he just has more important things to deal with right now than your message.

He has people. Real people. The kind who’ve stood beside him through every high and low. Friends who love him fiercely, who would drop everything for him. But still, knowing he’s hurting has stirred up feelings you haven’t touched in years. You’re not sure if that’s a good thing. 

Because you remember exactly how it felt to love him —  the intensity, the emotional chaos, and how it always felt like you were at war with yourself.

You used to support him at every step of his career — before the sold-out shows, before the press interview, before everyone in Europe knew his name. 

You were more then just a girlfriend. You were part of the process — giving feedback on lyrics, music videos, and discussing his ideas. He genuinely valued your opinions — you were always the first person he came to when he wanted to take the next step. 

You liked that. You liked being someone whose thoughts mattered. 

He used to say you had a creative mind, that you could make something brilliant if you let yourself. He had told you that you belonged in that world. 

But you couldn’t see it. You didn’t think you could handle the criticism, the spotlight, or the constant noise that came with it.

You were always impressed by his creativity — it felt endless, he constantly had new ideas that evolved into more ideas, and whenever he was working on something new, he could talk about it for hours. But you never complained — you loved seeing him so passionate and excited about his projects. 

You wished you had this passion — for your work, or honestly, for anything at all. You admired how dedicated he was, how his eyes lit up when he had a new concept, or when his music got good reviews. And you were genuinely happy for him — because if anyone deserved that kind of joy, that kind of purpose — it was him.

As the day comes to an end, you come to terms with the fact that he’s not going to answer. Maybe the number still works, maybe he read the message. Maybe he didn’t. Either way, you know he’s not reaching back. 

He probably has someone now — someone who knows how to comfort him in the ways he needs, someone whose arms feel like safety. Someone who tells him he didn’t deserve this, that he’s more than this moment. And you are happy for him. Truly. 

Even if there’s a small sting of jealousy, you know you have no right to feel it. It was you who ended things. You who decided not to give him another chance — not three years ago, and not any of the times he reached out afterward, asking for one. He has every right not to not answer. Every right to never speak again if that’s what he chooses. And you have to accept that.

***

Over the next few days, you almost forget about that message, as you get caught up in job interviews and your friends’ heart problems. Every now and then, you hear something about him — a headline here, a mention there, but you just hope he’s doing well and that with time, he’ll feel better. There’s nothing more you can do. 

You offered your support, but you can understand that comfort from someone who once turned him away during a vulnerable moment might not be what he needs. 

You start getting ready for a yoga class — a new, healthy habit you’re trying to stick to. You’re halfway through stuffing a towel, water bottle and change of clothes into your gym bag, when you hear a knock at the door.

You frown. You didn’t invite anyone — maybe it’s someone from building maintenance or a neighbor needing something. You leave your bag on the table, half-zipped, and hurry to the door, hoping this will be quick. 

But when you open it — the air shifts.

The last time you saw him was on those steps outside your apartment. Years have passed. You haven’t seen him since, not in real life, not this close. But the moment your eyes meet, your stomach curls into that same unmistakeable knot — the one you thought had unraveled long ago.

He’s changed. Completely. Platinum blonde mullet. Baggy jeans — the kind he would have never worn back in 2019 when you met — and a hoodie. It’s a simple, casual outfit, but somehow it makes him look better than ever.

But his eyes — his eyes are exactly the same.

That piercing, crystal blue. Like a summer sky on a cloudless day.

“Joost.” you say, but it comes out more of a whisper.

You can’t bring yourself to say anything else. When you sent that message, you thought you had prepared yourself for every possible outcome — a polite reply, complete silence, maybe even a cold rejection. A call maybe, if he was feeling nostalgic. A block, if he was angry. 

But not this.

Not him, standing there. In person. On your doorstep.

For a split second, it almost feels like a pattern — how he appears without warning. Last time, it was the same: no warning, no message — just him. And again, you’re caught completely unprepared, not just for his presence, but for the memories and emotions that come rushing with it. You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know what you’re feeling. 

You both stand there, looking at each other as if neither of you knows what to say. What’s the proper etiquette in situations like this? Should you engage in small talk? Should you just ask why he’s here?

After what feels like forever — both of you frozen in the doorway, exchanging glances —  he finally speaks, his voice quiet:

“Can I come in?” His voice is quieter than you remember. Less playful.

You’re so taken aback by his sudden appearance that you almost forget how to speak. 

“Yeah… ah, of course”

You step aside, letting him, and then just… stand there. Neither of you seems to know what to do next. God, Y/N — say something. Anything.

“So… you wrote me a few days ago” he finally says, but he doesn’t move — like he’s waiting for permission — like he’s afraid this might still be a mistake. 

“Yeah… I heard… you know, about all everything. And I wanted to check if… if you’re okay.” Your voice is still soft, like you haven’t recovered from the shock of seeing him. 

“I see” he says, and as he steps further into the room, the better lighting reveals just how exhausted he looks — like he hasn’t sleep in years. The dark circles under his crystal blue eyes seem almost bruised, his skin paler than you remember, stretched thin over exhaustion and stress.

“Well, I am very… watched right now. I could have answered you, but I can’t really meet with you anywhere outside — I’m constantly followed. By paparazzi, by people, by fans… and by enemies” 

There’s a note of sadness in his voice, and you feel genuinely sorry for him. You can’t imagine a life where you can’t even visit your favorite places without being chased. Especially knowing how much he used to enjoy being outside alone — how he loved going to the park just to sit on a bench and smoke a cigarette.

“I was thinking about answering” he says slowly, his eyes fixed on the floor “but… I didn’t know what to say. I felt like messages were not enough. And honestly… out of all the people in the world, you were the only one I truly wanted to talk to.” His voice is weak, and you can see it in his face — it wasn’t easy to admit.

You look at him without saying a word. You don’t even know where to begin — you haven’t seen each other in years. Somehow, you never once crossed paths. Not on the street, not in a store, not on a party. What was there to say? Hello, how are you? What have you been doing these past three years while I was trying not to think about you?

You’re meeting at such a delicate moment — he’s probably more sensitive than usual, and you don’t want to overstep his boundaries. 

“I…” you start, but you have no idea what to say. His sudden appearance caught you off guard. You don’t know how to act, how to talk to him, or what you could possibly do to make him feel better in this fucked up situation. A wave of self-consciousness washes over you. You start to regret sending that message. The awkwardness of this moment is almost too much to take.

You finally collect yourself, thinking — you were the one that reached out. You owe him something. A conversation at least, no matter how lost and uncomfortable you feel now.

“Come on. Sit down.” You say, gesturing toward the sofa. Suddenly, a flashback hits you — the countless times you made out there. You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. 

Of course he’s not, you scold yourself. He has more important things to think about than where and how you used to have sex. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. God, it shouldn’t be this awkward. 

Or maybe it’s exactly as awkward as it should be — he’s your ex, after all.

“Do you want something to drink? Tea, water?” You open the fridge. You spot the bottle of wine on the door shelf and hesitate.

Not a good idea. God knows where a glass of wine might lead — and the last thing you need is to tempt the fate when the air is already thick with tension.

“Coca cola?” 

“Just water is fine” he answers. 

You pour him a glass of water. Then you set a kettle for tea — not because you particularly want tea, but because you need something to do. A few extra minutes to gather your thoughts. 

Finally, you sit down next to him on the sofa. You keep a safe distance — not too close for him to think you want something to happen, but not too far to make it look awkward.

“So…” you say slowly, looking at him “Did you really… make a threatening move?” you don’t want to say hit — you don’t believe it, and you don’t want to offend him. But as soon as those words leave your mouth, you regret them. 

“No!” He says sharply, almost shouting — clearly offended. So much for your attempt to be delicate “You know me… I’m not violent. I never have been.”

“I know, Joost.” You say softly. 

Your hand twitches, instinctively wanting to reach for his thigh, to offer some comfort. But something stops you — hesitation, maybe fear. You’re afraid to touch him, as if that would make this moment too real. There’s an invisible barrier between you, and you’re not sure either of you is ready to cross it. 

“What happened there?” You ask quietly. 

You’re not sure if he came here to talk about it — or just for your company.

“Nothing…” he sighs, sadness unmistakable on his face — you really don’t like seeing him like that. “I don’t want to talk about it… Let’s just say, they didn’t respect the boundaries we agreed on beforehand. There was a lot of shit happening behind the scenes that no one saw. I don’t want to go back to that.” he says. “I worked on it for a very long time, and it was gone in minutes, you know? Just because I didn’t let someone disrespect me.”

“I’m so sorry.” You say with a sigh — and you truly mean it. You know he poured an incredible amount of work into preparing for that show — and then, the opportunity was stolen from him. “I’m sure you were working on that song for a long time. It’s amazing by the way.” You smile at him, and he returns it, though his smile is faint and there’s still sadness buried behind those beautiful eyes.

“Thank you. I knew you would like it.” He still smiles — now a little warmer. You can see a shadow of pride in his eyes — you know your opinion matters to him. 

“I like the last part the most. You know how much I like the sensitive side of Joost.” You say, and he nods, chuckling. He knew what you meant — back when you were together, that part of him rarely surfaced.

He used to mask intense emotions with jokes and humor, often changing the subject. He always ran away when serious topics came up. But you really liked this new version of him — someone who’s open about his struggles, not afraid to shed a tear, and more willing to face difficult conversations.

“You’d like my last album then.” You can hear the hope in his voice. Like he’s been wishing, all this time, that you were still paying attention. That maybe, even from afar, you still cared.

And he’s not wrong — you listened to that album, and you liked it more than you ever expected. You remember sitting there at 2 a.m., headphones on, reading the English translations and realizing how many painful things he had been feeling — things he never told you about. You knew about some of his childhood struggles, but never fully grasped how deep they ran. He didn’t want to share them back then — and you didn’t know how to make him trust you enough to.

In moments like this, you wish you could go back in time — not to change everything, but to approach it all with more care. Give him more space to express how he felt. But you were only 21 when you started dating — still learning who you were, let alone how to help someone else feel safe with their own emotions. And deep down you know it was never just on you. He had to want to let you in.

“You’ve changed a lot since the last time we saw each other. At least… that’s what it seems. The Joost that I knew would never wear those jeans” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood a little.

“Yeah.” He nods, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, and you feel proud that you made him laugh, even if just a little. “I’m no longer a Soundcloud rapper.” 

You laugh, remembering the very first time you met — when he told you he was a musician and you guessed correctly, that he was a rapper influenced by the rap and trap scenes of the U.S., probably posting his music on SoundCloud. At that time he was already somewhat known, but it couldn’t compare to now. His career had taken a different direction, and you had to admit — you liked this new, sensible, more creative side of him.

“So…” he starts but your phone ringing cuts through silence. 

You glance at the screen and see Kevin’s name. You quickly reject the call — you'll tell him later you were busy with your friends. 

“Your boyfriend?” Jo asks. You catch something odd in his voice, like he had been waiting for a chance to ask — to find out if you were seeing someone. 

“No” you answer, a little too quickly, feeling your cheeks grow warm. The way his eyes flick to yours — you know he noticed.

You’re not lying — not technically. You and Kevin haven’t defined anything. It’s still early, still casual, still in that “getting to know each other” phase. You’re not exclusive. You haven’t made promises.

But you’ve grown so close over the past few weeks that your answer feels like a lie— and a sting of guilt creeps in after you say it. You stare at your phone for a few seconds before finally looking up at Joost.

“So how have you been this whole time?” He asks, seeing how uncomfortable you are.

And from there, the conversation flows. You talk about everything — your job searching, all that’s happened lately, how you almost moved back to your home country but didn’t, how you’re learning Dutch. You even bring up your awkward attempts to reenter the dating scene — though you leave out the part about Kevin. 

You respond with the same question — and you are genuinely curious about how he’s been, what his life has looked like over the past few years. And, if you’re honest, a part of you wants to know if he’s seeing someone.

He starts talking, and it feels like he’s been waiting a long time for this— a chance to open up to you about the things that truly matter: his art, his career, how he felt after the disqualification. You offer the occasional question, but mostly, you just watch him — studying his face, his voice, his words. He talks about therapy, about working through the pain of his past, especially the things that happened in childhood — and you admire the honesty in his voice.

“I’m glad so many things changed for the better for you. And that your friends are still  always there for you.” You say with a smile, remembering the good times when you all used to go out together in that big group of friends.

“There’s something that didn’t change though.” You glance at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “My feelings for you.”

His voice is calm, but there’s a tremor beneath it — like he’s waited years to finally say it  out loud.

A thick silence settles between you after those words leave his mouth — almost painful in  it’s weight. You weren’t prepared for this. It’s been so many years, you never thought you’d even see him again, let alone hear him confess his feelings one more time. 

But here he is, dropping it like a bomb. 

Back then — that day on the stairs, when everything was unresolved — it made sense. But now? After all this time, when you were certain he had moved on, when you thought that chapter was closed for both of you… this feels unreal.

“Joost…” you say, finally. You look at him, but no words come.

He’s so close. Just one small movement and you could touch him — the warmth of his skin, the familiar shape of the face you once knew so well. A part of you wants to — to place your hand on his cheek, to offer him the comfort of your arms, or even to close the distance with long, tender kiss. 

But that’s not your reality anymore.

Time has passed. You’ve both changed. You’ve both moved on — or at least you have. You made peace with your decision to move on. You reminded yourself, again and again, that there were reasons — real ones — to let go.

In this moment you realize it was a mistake to write him. Because no matter how many months, years — even decades — go by, the feelings between you won’t just vanish. He has a place in your heart that no one else can touch. You could date others, love others — but he was your first. The first love.

And as much as the past is supposed to stay behind you, it only takes the smallest spark to set those old feelings alight again.

“Don’t worry. I don’t expect anything from you.” He says with a pale smile. He may not expect anything — but it’s clear he was hoping for something. You suddenly want to hide under a blanket and not look at him for even a second longer. You regret reaching out. You regret sitting here.

Not because he was toxic, or bad for you — the wounds between you healed long ago.

But because the feelings you had for him were never completely gone. They were just buried deep in your mind, places you didn’t visit often. You never fully recovered from him. You moved on, yes. Accepted the ending, accepted that he wasn’t yours anymore. But your heart still dropped every time someone said his name — no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

You had placed him in the past and planned to never see him again — not because you hated him, but because the feelings you two once shared were so strong, the relationship so intense, that you didn’t believe a neutral connection was possible. With him, it was always all or nothing. Love, or no contact. And now, painfully, you were realizing that again — you couldn’t just be his friend.

All the feelings you had put to sleep, the ones you promised yourself you’d never revisit, were slowly creeping back from the distant corner of your heart. The memories, the beautiful moments you thought were long gone — they were rising to the surface again, awakened by his simple confession: that his feelings never changed.

Because in this moment, you realize that your feelings haven’t changed either. 

They were never truly gone — only suppressed. You made a conscious decision not to think about them, never look back. But just — what — an hour of talking to him? That was all it took to remind you how strong those feelings once were. And how frighteningly easy it would be for them to come rushing back.

“I think you should go, Joost” you say quietly, the words slipping out before you even have time to process them. 

You know it’s the right thing. He can’t stay. This was a bad idea from the start. You have to forget that this has ever happened. 

“It was very nice to see you again. And I’m really glad you’re getting better.” 

You can hear the nervousness in your own voice, and you’re certain he hears it too. 

“I’m really sorry about what happened to you at Eurovision.” 

You want to offer him help, to tell him he can reach out anytime — but you stop yourself. That kind of closeness, that invitation, would only bring you back here again. And you’re already struggling to stop your old feelings from surfacing. 

“Y/N…” he stands up slowly. 

He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t try to change your mind. He just looks at you, and you wish you could disappear. “I’m sorry if what I said was inappropriate. I didn’t mean to…” 

“It’s fine. Really.” You stand up too. “I just think the story we had is a closed chapter, and we shouldn’t reopen the old wounds.” 

You don’t sound convincing — not even to yourself. You’re trying harder to convince you than him. “I’m really glad you came. I mean it.” You add, forcing a smile. And you do, but it doesn’t change the pain in your chest.

He’s looking at you, saying nothing — and you can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind. That’s another change you notice in him. Back then, on the stairs, he tried to convince you with everything he had. He told you how much he loved you, how he had changed — he was desperate and emotional.

But now, he’s different. He’s quietly accepting whatever decision you make. No begging. No desperation.

“Okay” 

You walk him to the door and open it. 

“So…” he starts, voice uncertain — like he has one last thing to say, but isn’t sure if he should.

The awkward silence and tensionfill in the room as he searches for the right words for another goodbye. But nothing comes, he doesn’t know what to say, how to make this moment last just a little longer. And neither do you — you’re not even sure what you want. Do you want to go back to not speaking, keeping your distance? Or do you want to see him again — open that door in your mind, knowing full well it leads into a flood of memories you’re not sure you’re ready to face?

“Bye, Jo” you say softly. 

He steps forward and wraps his arms around you. And just like that, the past wraps around you too. 

That’s it. That’s your last straw. You bury your face in the soft fabric of his hoodie, and the scent — unmistakably his — crashes into you like a wave. Still the same, still his. It feels so good, after all this time, to be close to him again. His arms feel just as they did — safe, warm. Like your place in the world is still right there, between his chest and arms. You can’t help but reach for the back of his neck, and you feel his hands gently wrap around your back. 

Oh, you’re in trouble. Big, big trouble.

You close your eyes and try to force yourself to leave the hug, but the emotions inside you explode like fireworks. One of his hands moves to your face, tucking your hair gently behind your ear, his thumb brushing softly across your cheek. 

You know this is heading in the wrong direction. You should pull away. But you can’t. And worse — you don’t want to. You could stay here forever, wrapped in this soft, warm, safe embrace.

You look up at him, with wide, doe eyes, and for a second he looks down at you, studying your expression — his thumb still gently stroking your cheek. 

Even though you were together for over two years, this feels like the most intimate moment that you’ve ever shared. 

And then it happens.

He leans in, his lips brush yours, cautious at first, like asking permission. His hand moves from your cheek to your hair. 

You don’t resist. You part your lips just slightly, letting him in, letting his tongue brush against yours. It’s not a hungry kiss. It’s slow. Delicate. Intimate. 

But the kiss unlocks something — no, everything — inside your mind. It’s like every memory, every hurried feeling, every version of yourself that loved him, has come rushing back at once. The butterflies in your stomach are no longer fluttering — they’re soaring. It feels exactly like it used to… and somehow, even more intense.

He pulls back slowly, lips just an inch away. But you’re not done. You place your hand on the back of his neck again and pull him back in for another kiss — this time deeper, more passionate. You want more of him. You want more of that feeling — the one only he has ever been able to give you. You feel a desperate need to have him close, and it’s not even about sex. It’s about the intimacy, the familiarity, the closeness that your body and heart have been silently craving since he left.

“Y/N…” he whispers against your lips, a quiet reminder of the choice you made all those years ago. He wants you. That much is clear. But he doesn’t want you to regret it.

“I missed you so much” you say suddenly, surprising even yourself. “My feelings have never changed either.” 

He reaches out his hand, and you take it without hesitation, letting him guide you back to the couch. 

He pulls you gently onto his lap, and you wrap your arms around him like he might vanish if you don’t hold him tight enough. The sudden shift in energy leaves both of you in silence, unsure what the next move should be.

“What are we going to do with this?” He asks, his hand resting on your thigh, gently caressing it through the fabric of your pants. He’s trying to be gentle, to keep himself in check — even though you can feel the heat in his touch. He wants to take them off. And truthfully, you kind of want that too. You want to peel away all the years, you want to feel him against you, around you, inside you. But you both know that crossing that line will make everything even more complicated than it already is.

You look at him, unsure of what to say. In this moment, you feel like a child — lost and overwhelmed. 

Even though you were the one who reached out first, the one who wanted to offer him support and understanding, now it’s him offering you the quiet comfort of his arms — and you know you shouldn’t accept it.

“I don’t know Joost… I think I need more time… I think…” you say, stumbling over your words. Your emotions caught you off guard, and you haven’t even had a moment to figure out what you really want. “I just… I don’t want to decide anything on impulse. Not again.”

He nods his head, but he doesn’t answer.

“Do you want me to stay?” He asks quietly. You know you told him to go — told yourself it was the right thing — but as the words echo in your mind they feel false. 

“Yes. I think we should… we should catch up.” you say with a smile.

He smiles in return, and you slip off his lap to sit beside him. As you expected, he wraps an arm around your shoulders. And somehow, even the lightest graze of his fingers ignites something in you. Something tender, something dangerous. A spark that tells you nothing between you two ever really disappeared — it just went quiet.

You talk about everything — his life, how the pandemic affected both your mental healths, about the songs he wrote and the pain it helped him finally confront. He tells you about his upcoming tour, his plan to go to Eurovision again next year, this time with something even more honest. 

You tell him about your life too, about learning Dutch. He teaches you some words and laughs at your pronunciation, so you smack him with a pillow in retaliation.

With every word he says, you feel how much he’s changed. How much more mature he is now, how he no longer avoids uncomfortable questions. Being with him feels so natural — like the past years never happened, like not a single day passed without you being by his side.

You finally get up from the couch to start preparing dinner for the both of you, and you send him to a nearby supermarket to buy a few things and something to drink.

The silence that follows is deafening. Without his voice, without his presence filling the room, your thoughts can’t stop flooding. And with them — that familiar sting of guilt. Kevin. He’s out there, halfway across the world, completely unaware that your ex who still holds a corner of your heart — is now in your apartment. Sitting on your couch. Laughing at your jokes. Making you feel things. And you don’t know what’s worse — the guilt, or the realization that you haven’t been fully honest with anyone. Not even yourself.

You know you owe Kevin the truth — at the very least, some honesty. And in fact, you shouldn’t even be engaging with Joost at all. But you couldn’t stop yourself. If years of distance, silence and heartbreak weren’t enough to erase him, then maybe nothing ever will. And maybe the real mistake wasn’t letting Joost back in. Maybe it was ever trying to build something with Kevin when your heart was never truly free.

Joost gets back to your apartment and places the groceries on the kitchen counter, before coming up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, and resting his head  on your shoulder. You can’t resist how cute, how gentle, how absolutely kind he is. 

“You have to let me finish, otherwise we’ll be starving.” You say.

“We can just order something.”

“No, i do that way to often! Sit on the couch and let me handle this.” You smile over your shoulder.

He places a gentle kiss on your shoulder and goes back to the couch. 

You’re adding ingredients to the pasta sauce, the warm scent starting to fill the kitchen. That’s when you hear it — the sound of a message notification. Before you can turn around and check, you see Joost already looking at the screen.

“Who is Kevin… with a heart?” Joost’s eyebrow rises.

Shit. You knew adding the heart next to Kevin’s name was too much, too soon. But you got so excited after the last date Kevin planned that you rushed that step.

“Uhm, it’s no one.” You answer — but you know that’s not true, and you can tell by Joost’s expression that he doesn’t buy it.

“Y/N, are you cheating on someone with me?” He’s voice isn’t angry — it’s confused. He knows you’re not the type to be unfaithful.

“We’re not doing anything.” You don’t turn around, stirring the pasta sauce much faster than necessary. Your voice is defensive, and your heart is full of guilt.

For a moment, he says nothing. But then you hear his voice again, and you could swear he sounds hurt by what he’s just discovered.

“We kissed. And that still doesn’t answer my question. You told me you don’t have anyone…” he says, his voice sharp with betrayal.

His words are not loud, not cruel, but heavy with accusation. He knows you lied.

“Because I don’t.” 

You want to tell him that you don’t owe him an apology — but you do. You were the one who hid the fact that you’re actually seeing someone. You know he might have refused the kiss, the touch, even the conversation if he had known. And part of you knows you did it on purpose — because you were afraid of being rejected.

Even though Kevin wasn’t your boyfriend and you were still in the getting-to-know phase, Joost deserved the truth. 

You take the sauce of the heat, before finally turning to face him.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you.” 

He doesn’t look angry — just confused, disappointed. 

“He’s not my boyfriend though. We went out for a few dates. It was nice, I won’t lie — we had fun.” You paused, not looking away. “But… then you came here, and I wasn’t expecting that. I didn’t expect to feel everything again.” you take a small breath, your voice quieter now “I just… I’m so lost, I thought you were a closed chapter…” 

“And what are you planning to do about that now?” He asks. There’s no anger in his voice — just a calm question. He’s looking for clarity, trying to understand where he stands. And you don’t blame him.

“I don’t know, Joost” you sigh.

You hadn’t expected this — to be put in a position where you’d need to find a resolution. But now that he’s asked, you have to face it. You owe him that much. 

But how are you supposed to decide? 

You only saw Joost a few hours ago, for the first time in years. You don’t even know where this is going — but there’s a strange peace inside you. Something about this time feels different than all the ones before. And you want to see where it leads.

You didn’t feel that familiar sense of anxiety — the fear that he couldn’t make any promises, or that he might disappear without a word. Somehow, this time, he’s saying all the right things, as if he’s finally grown into the promises he was never ready to make.

But at the same time, just the thought of that conversation you’ll have to have with Kevin breaks your heart — because how do you explain to someone that while he was away on a work trip, you met with your ex, and fell in love again?

But did you? 

Did you fall in love again? Or did the old feelings just rise up, familiar and warm?

You’re not sure. But you know one thing: you want to give Joost a chance. You want to see where this could go.

“I’ll have to talk to him about this. He’s currently on a work trip, and I don’t think that it’s something that should be handled over the phone.”

Joost looks at you but doesn’t say anything. 

It drives you crazy. You want to know what he’s thinking. You want to ask. But at the same time, just bringing up Kevin feels awkward enough. So you don’t.

“I just need time, Joost… You have to understand, we met after years apart. I want to collect my thoughts and decide what I really want.” 

You almost add I want to see if you won’t leave, but you stop yourself — reopening old wounds wouldn’t help either of you now.

“I know. Don’t worry about it.” He says.

You give him a small smile, grateful for his understanding. But the thought of Kevin lingers, heavier then you’d like — like something you can’t shake off, no matter how much you want to stay in the moment.

You hand him his plate of spaghetti and grab the bottle of wine, pouring two glasses. You’ve already crossed boundaries, and selfishly, you just want Kevin and the guilt to leave your mind — at least tonight. 

Joost seems to understand. He doesn’t press, doesn’t bring up Kevin again. Maybe he knows you’re not ready, maybe he doesn’t want to break whatever fragile thread is holding this connection together right now. 

There’s a billion other things to talk about, so you both quietly agree to shift the conversation elsewhere. You bring up music, travel, old memories. He listens, laughs, teases you like he used to. For now, the past is behind you, and it almost feels like peace.

With next sips of wine, and Joost’s funny stories about recording the music video, Kevin fades from your mind, and your attention is fully back on Joost.

You’re standing at the kitchen counter, putting things back in their place, when you feel him place both hands on either side of your body, pinning you gently to the counter. His warm chest presses against your back. He brushes your hair aside, his fingertips grazing your skin, and places a soft kiss on your now-exposed neck.

You feel the tension rising between the two of you. You knew that the moment the alcohol hit your veins, the two of you would be all over each other. And maybe that was exactly what you were aiming for when you handed him that bottle of wine to open.

“Joost…” his name escapes your lips in a soft, needy whimper, as his hand reaches for your belly.

“Let’s go watch something, what do you think?” He says with a smile, gently stroking your arm. “We can just lie down, eat chips… and watch cartoons. If you want me to stay, of course.”

“I do.” You reply — a little too quickly. Kevin appears again in the back of your mind, but you can’t say no. You want more, you want to see how this unfolds.

You both head to the bedroom. You slip off the yoga pants, staying in just your underwear, and throw on an oversized t-shirt. You glance at him. You didn’t ask him to stay the night — but somehow, you always knew he would.

“Do you want something? A t-shirt?” 

He nods, and you toss him one from the drawer. He undresses, and you can’t help but watch his nearly naked body, adorned with new tattoos. You want to ask about all of them — when and why he got them, if they mean something special, if he plans on getting more.

Then the regret hits you. You could have been there with him. All this time, you could have been together, if you hadn’t rejected him on those stairs all those years ago. If only you said yes then… maybe you would’ve grown together instead of apart. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks, like he’s reading the thoughts right off your face.

“About your tattoos” you laugh. 

He sits down on the bed and taps the spot next to him. He still fits here — like nothing ever changed. Like this was always his place, next to you.

He slides beneath the sheets, and you let yourself lie down beside him. Your head rests on his shoulder, your fingers lazily tracing the Lola Bunny tattoo. 

“You like this one?”

You nod, and he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you. For a few minutes, you’re both completely silent. You turn on a movie on Netflix, but neither of you really pays attention to what’s happening on the screen.

His fingers tangle gently in your hair, and you look at him — completely defenseless now. You’re not fighting it anymore.

“I love you, Y/N” he says, his face just inches away from yours. “I love you.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you bury your face in his arms. It seems more like a confession, his moment of vulnerability.

“There wasn’t a day during this whole process that I didn’t think about you. I wanted to share every minute we worked on this project, i wished you were there. I wanted to tell you everything. Every day.” You watch the feelings spill out of him. He was never like this — any kind of confession had always been hard for him.  

“Joost…” you try to find the right words.

“I know you might not believe me” he says “but I really regret what I’ve done. I’ve been regretting it every single day.”

“I know, my baby. I know.” You say, pulling slightly away to look him in the eyes. 

He’s finally saying the things that should have been said years ago — the words that might have saved you both from the heartbreak.

“I love you. I want everything with you. I promise, I will never leave you again. I won’t disappoint you like that ever again. I want to spend my whole life with you, and I never want to go a single day without talking to you” he says, looking straight into your eyes — no hesitation, no shyness. No looking away. No mumbling toward the floor. 

“These years apart only made me realize how much I actually love you, how badly I fucked up, and how much you mean to me. You’ve always meant everything.” He doesn’t stop, and the intensity of his gaze almost makes you uncomfortable.

Here it is — all you ever wanted. Everything you thought you’d lost for good. And now it’s here again, standing before you, asking to be let back in. Maybe he was the definition of right person at the wrong time. 

Maybe THIS is your time.

“I love you too, Joost.” You whisper, knowing it’s still true — even after all of these years. You see the regret in his eyes, the quiet desperation in the way he looks at you, trying to show you that this time, it will be different.

And for the first time, you truly believe it. Maybe you’re being foolish. Maybe you’re setting yourself up for heartbreak all over again. But in this moment, it feels right.

He gently lifts your chin, closing the last bit of the distance between you with a kiss. You help him pull off your t-shirt. He pauses fo a second, but his lips don’t wander to your neck or your chest. It doesn’t feel rushed or lustful. It feels like he’s peeling away your fears, your insecurities — like he’s asking to be let back in. And you’re letting him. With every touch, he’s making another silent promise.

And you let him. You let his fingers slowly remove your underwear, let him touch you wherever he pleases. You let him continue. 

You give your body to him in the most intimate way.

It’s not about trying new positions, or making you beg, or even making you scream. It’s a silent promise he’s giving you. He touches you with an intimacy deeper than anything you’ve known. When he slides into you, his movements are slow, and deliberate, as if he wants it to last forever, to stay inside you as long as he can. 

He doesn’t break eye contact, not even for a second. He keeps whispering how much he loves you, how important you are to him, while one finger strokes your cheek. You look at him with your eyes wide, not just from the physical sensation, but from the wave of emotion that has bloomed all over again. 

You believe him — all those promises, all those feelings seem so real now, he’s closer than he’s ever been. He’s inside you in every sense of that word— not just physically, but deep within you, in every cell, every thought, every beat of your heart.

His body is warm and bare against yours. His breath mingles with yours, his words slipping directly into your mouth between kisses. Your fingers knot in his hair as he brings you over the edge — not with urgency, but with something deeper. It’s the most intimate sex you’ve ever had — not because of the way he moves, but because of the way he means it. He keeps kissing you, as if he never wants to stop, as if he could live in this moment forever. And he believes — truly believes — that this time, it will be forever.

You love the sensation of him filling you, of him making your body cry out in pleasure. But you’d give all of that up for this— when he makes you feel seen, important, safe and certain of his love.

You stay in bed the entire evening, It’s late into the night, but you’re far from tired of each other. You talk about your plans — where you’ll go together, how you’ll spend the next few months. The future doesn’t feel distant anymore. It feels real.

“I always knew you were mine” you whisper into the dark room, your head resting on his chest. “Somehow… I just knew. I think I was always waiting. I knew you would come back.”

“I wanted to come back every single day. Since the day we say goodbye. Look.”

He reaches for his phone resting on the nightstand. He opens the Notes app, and scrolls to one of them.

“I wrote to you every day. I just didn’t send it.” He says, handing you the phone. 

You scroll through the screen, stunned — hundreds of unsent messages. Some are just a line or two. Others are long, flowing paragraphs filled with ideas, memories, feelings. There are messages where he vents — frustrated or sad. Others where he’s happy, excited, inspired. Some are just little jokes he thought you’d laugh at, or moments he noticed something and thought of you. It’s like reading the life you could have shared. The version of you that existed in his heart, even when you weren’t there. “Every trip I went on, I brought you a present” he adds quietly “They’re all at my place… waiting for you.”

“Joost, this is…” you shake your head, overwhelmed. 

It would feel like too much — if it was anyone else. But with him, it makes sense. You always knew he carried oceans of feelings, hidden just beneath the surface. And now, it feels like it’s all spilling out of him.

“I was just… waiting for a sign from you, you know? If you’d never written to me again, I would’ve accept it. But God, I hoped you would. And I was starting to lose that hope.”

“I’m glad… I did.” you say.

“I’m glad too.”

And then, without another word, the tears come.

“Hey… I’m sorry… Is this too much?” He asks gently.

“No” you shake your head. “ It’s just… everything I’ve ever wanted. And I don’t know what to do with it.” 

He closes the distance between you in a tight hug. You melt into him, letting yourself be held, your body begins to relax. You’re not sure if it’s happiness, excitement, surprise — or some tangled cocktail of it all — but whatever it is, it’s overwhelming in the best kind of way.

Whatever it is, you’re taking it with open arms — and you’re not planning to let it go. Not ever again.

He’s drifting to sleep beside you, while you lie awake, gently tracing circles on his chest. You’re afraid to close your eyes. What if this is just a dream? What if, by morning, it’s all gone and you’re back to your regular life?

But it’s not. 

You blink your eyes open… and he’s still there.

It’s hard to explain to your friends why you forgave him. Why the years of silence and the way he hurt you aren’t dealbreakers anymore. 

It’s hard to look Kevin in the eye and tell him you can’t see him again — not because he did anything wrong, but because your heart was never truly his. 

It’s hard to face the disappointed looks, the hushed “Are you sure?” Talks, the pity disguised as concern.

But at the same time, it’s not hard at all. It feels like the easiest decision you’ve ever made. You’ve never been so sure about anything in your life.

The next day, you wake up — and he’s here.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

He doesn’t disappear anymore. He’s always there — to give you a kiss when you wake up, or to leave you a note saying that he had to go to the studio. Before you even realize it, your toothbrush is in his bathroom, and his underwear is in one of your drawers. Before you even notice, you’re talking about the future. 

And the dreams you once had — of spending your whole life with him — no longer feel like fragile fantasies. You don’t feel guilty for having them anymore. Or scared. They’re not just your dreams now — they’re your future. And for the first time, you’re allowed to believe in it.

He doesn’t run anymore. The fear of losing you again won’t let him. Even in the moments when he’s feeling low, he no longer shuts you out. He lets you in, lets you support him, and talk things through. The months pass, and somehow, you’ve never been closer. 

And you’re so, so grateful for the day you allowed yourself to reach out. If you hadn’t… maybe you wouldn’t be here now, lying next to him a year later, listening to the news about this year’s Eurovision Song Contest.

“You know, this contest is fucked up.” he says, his fingers gently stroking the skin on your arm. “It took away my dream, but it also brought another dream back.” 

You smile at his words. They’re true.

And you’re grateful, more than anything, to be the one who helped him through it. The one he stayed for. 

You watched him heal from the situation at the contest. 

You watched him make it better through music. 

You watched the peak of his career bring him both joy and fear. 

But most of all, you watched him grow — getting better, day by day.

And you?

that night was exceptionally warm. you sat on the balcony of your small apartment in Amsterdam, looking at the dark sky full of stars. it seemed to try to soothe you with its own calmness. everything around you seemed to be silent, even the city, usually full of sounds, became quiet, as if it knew that your usually thought-filled head, needed this.

you reflected on how much your life had changed over the past months. it was a lot. at moments like these, your thoughts wandered back to him again. inside you, despite the passing weeks, there was still a silent struggle - longing clashed with anger, memories clashed with attempts to forget. 

your heart refused to let go, even though reason had long since departed and even though you knew, that leaving it all behind was the best option at the time, something inside you still clung to that one moment when everything seemed possible.

that particular, almost unreal moment, when his eyes looked at you as if you were everything.

and you believed then that it was enough.

it wasn’t.

the cigarette in your mouth smoldered slowly, unevenly, as if it was not sure if it wanted to burn to the end. the smoke irritated your throat, but you did not care - it was the only thing that gave you any solace that night. the cold mixed with the smell of your shampoo, creating a strange, familiar aura. you closed your eyes, but not to fall asleep. rather to disappear, at least for a moment - from memories, from him, from yourself.

during these passing weeks, you felt good. maybe not happy, but peaceful. stable. life was slowly moving forward, day by day, and you regained yourself anew with each morning.

you learned to drink coffee without his presence. sleep on your side of the bed without waiting for him to come back. you stopped checking your phone. even his name stopped hurting like before.

but still, somewhere inside, an uncertainty smoldered. quiet, barely perceptible, but persistent. as if all this was just the silence before the storm. as if something was about to happen - something that would disturb your peace again, shake your heart and remind you that no end is final until you really stop feeling.

and you still felt. too much.

suddenly, you were snapped out of your lethargy by the sound of the doorbell. slightly alarmed, you hastily put out the rest of your cigarette against the metal edge of the ashtray and entered the apartment, carefully heading toward the front door.

you weren’t expecting anyone at this hour. three o'clock in the morning is definitely not the time for a normal visit. besides, in this city, in this solitude, any unexpected visit had the right to cause anxiety.

walking slowly, a million different scenarios began to appear in your head: what if it's some thief? maybe some mistake? or maybe the neighbor needs something?

your heart sped up and your hand involuntarily hovered over the doorknob, afraid to touch it. you turned the lock on the door and carefully began to swing it open, feeling the tension move down your spine like a cool shiver.

then something else crossed your mind - a thought so absurd and irrational that you held your breath for a moment.

what if it's him?

your heart was beating too loudly.

the door opened all the way.

and then you saw him.

Joost stood in front of you in all his glory, wobbling slightly on his feet and propping himself up against the front door frame. his bloodshot eyes revealed the amount of alcohol he had consumed, yet he looked as good as always.

too shocked to say anything, you stood there, holding onto the door frame as if you were about to fall. his gaze lifted from the floor and slowly moved over your body until finally stopping on your face. for a moment, he said nothing; he just looked, trying to read you again, as if wanting to see if you were still the same person he left behind.

„what- what the hell are you doing here?” you asked in a hushed voice that somehow escaped your clenched throat.

„may I come in?” he began, rambling slightly, using the same voice that used to calm you down.

„answer my damn question, Joost,” you said, trying to keep your nerves in check, although you felt something inside you begin to crack.

the man looked at you again with hazy eyes that could no longer focus on a single point. then, unexpectedly, a slight, almost mocking smile appeared on his face.

„I've been thinking about you lately, you know, y/n?” he replied quietly.

„I've been thinking a lot lately,” he added, leaning heavily against the doorframe, as if his presence there overwhelmed him. “and see where that got me?”

he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, as if he stood before you not as one who had left, but as one who had been abandoned by the whole world.

there was something in his voice that would have once broken you in half. but today? today you were no longer the same person. currently, on the other hand, you were extremely annoyed.

„to my door? after so many months?” the answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you didn't utter it. something in his empty, extinguished - maybe even pleading - eyes made you freeze and in that silence, everything started to hurt again, as if none of the wounds had really healed, as if his voice alone could make you feel small again.

„don't come here ever again, Joost,” you replied quickly, gathering up the remnants of your strong will.

wanting to close the door in his face, you suddenly felt resistance; his hand stopped the door. you stood paralyzed for a moment - your heart was beating so loudly that you could hear it more clearly than your own thoughts. his fingers clenched tighter on the doorframe as if he were afraid that if he let go, he would lose his last chance.

„I miss you so much,” he added quickly, almost in a whisper. you froze internally.

all he needed to do was say those words, and he had you. just like that.

you hated yourself for how much his words still resonated with you, even though he had no right anymore - not after what he had done, not after he had left.

and yet, you stood there, his voice under your skin, his look in your eyes, your trembling hand on the doorknob.

your hands hung at your sides as if tired of the internal struggle. the whole scene - him in the doorway and you on the edge of sanity - suddenly became too much.

you threw him one last look, no words or anger, just a look that said enough - not about him or yourself, but about this constant struggle for something that had long since ceased to be certain.

you turned around slowly and walked into the apartment. you didn't wait for him or encourage him, but you didn't close the door, either.

and that was enough.

you gave him the green light.

and he, as always, went in where you never quite threw him out.

Joost closed the door behind him with a quiet, drawn-out slam. for a moment, he stood motionless, as if he himself did not believe he was inside again, as if he was afraid it was a dream.

after a while, his heavy footsteps echoed through the apartment, hitting the wooden floor with a familiar rhythm as he followed you slowly and without a word, like a shadow that knows every nook and cranny of the place because it once belonged to him as much as to you.

he walked into the living room and looked at the couch, the bookshelf and your lamp he once hated so much, which still stood where you left it. everything looked familiar and yet foreign.

it was the same place where you used to spend every free moment together, in silence or laughter, but now there was only tension.

you sat down in the chair and pulled your legs up under you as if you wanted to take up as little space as possible - or hide from what was just starting to happen. your fingers tightened on the blanket on the backrest.

Joost stood next to you uncertainly, his hands hanging helplessly at his sides, looking as if he didn't know what to do with them or with himself.

for a moment, he said nothing, just looking at you, the room and the memories that seemed to settle in every corner, heavy as dust. he swallowed his saliva.

„a lot has changed here,” he finally chuckled quietly.

you looked at him with the same tired calm from under your eyelashes.

„yes, Joost. everything has changed.”

the blond man looked at you again - longer and deeper - as if he were trying to see something in your eyes that he hadn't found in months: something familiar, something that would make sense of his life.

after a while, he sank to the floor in front of you without a word. he sat slightly hunched over with his arms on his knees, still not taking his eyes off you.

he was now so close, yet so far away.

the atmosphere thickened. all the unspeakable things had gathered between you in that moment without mercy. you could have cut it with a knife.

your throat became dry as if your body knew words were about to be spoken that shouldn't be spoken.

he looked at you with that intensity you knew all too well - the look of a man who had you in his hands, lost you and is now trying to get you back, even though he doesn't know what he'll do with you when he has you again.

„I miss you,” he repeated after a while, this time more quietly, as if he was afraid of the weight of those words, as if saying them out loud meant he had to admit to them. to the fact that longing was consuming him. to the fact that something inside him broke.

and you?

you felt the words stab you like a knife - not for the first time, but still painfully - and you didn't know what was worse: hearing those words from his mouth again or how much you still wanted to believe them.

„don't do this. why do you have to do this?” you replied in a trembling voice, trying to sound firm.

Joost furrowed his brow and tilted his head slightly.

„do what?” he asked with feigned innocence, even though he knew exactly what you were talking about.

„bring up these topics," you said, the words rushing out faster and faster. „why do you have to bring up the fact that you miss me? what's the point of that?”

the silence between you was heavier than before.

the cruelest part of his return wasn't that he came, but that he reopened all those wounds.

you looked at him with eyes full of weariness.

„you don't get to say that,” you said more quietly after a moment. „not after everything.”

Joost lowered his gaze for a moment, trying to escape the weight of your words.

„I can't help it. when I'm drunk, my brain always finds its way to you, you know?" he replied with a half-smile. but that smile was hollow and cracked, like someone trying to joke about self-inflicted wounds.

your eyes glazed over with emotions you no longer wanted to experience.

„well, maybe stop getting drunk and start taking some fucking responsibility,” you hissed. your voice faltered and you hastily got up from your seat, wanting to escape, at least for a moment, from being at his fingertips.

your body moved faster than your thoughts. you needed space, air - anything that didn't smell like him.

Joost raised his head and looked at you as if he had just realized he was losing you again, only this time there was no door to slam or message you wouldn't read. he got to his feet, still wobbling slightly.

„you think, I don't want to fix it?” he asked quietly. "you think, I haven't been trying?”

you turned to him with a gaze that said more than any words could.

„no,” you whispered. „I think, you only start trying when it's already too late.”

Joost froze. your words cut the air like glass, a shadow appeared in his eyes.

„I didn't know how,” he whispered, as if it were a justification. "I never learned how to be what you needed me to be.”

you sighed quietly and looked away.

„but I'm here now,” he said, almost pleadingly, taking a step toward you.

you held up your hand to stop him.

„Joost, we're past that already,” you said. your words hung in the air, heavy with truth and disappointment.

„y/n, please…" he whispered, his voice faltering as if this request were his last hope.

he stood still, like words he wanted to say were stuck between his heart and throat.

„Joost, stop. besides, I’m seeing someone,” you said calmly but forcefully, feeling as if everything in the room had frozen for a moment.

his eyes widened slightly and then darkened with a mixture of pain, jealousy, and helplessness. he looked at you as if stunned.

„w-what…?" he muttered, his voice breaking as if he were surprised at how much this hurt him.

you remained silent, giving him time to come to terms with what he had just heard - the fact that you were no longer the same person he once knew.

all of a sudden, Joost approached you abruptly and grabbed your arm firmly. all you felt was a throbbing pain. his grip was too strong and desperate, like someone losing control and unable to stop the building anger.

your heart beat faster, your mind began to look for a way out of this sudden trap.

„let me go,” you whispered, trying not to sound frightened, although you felt a growing fear inside.

his eyes glittered strangely, full of contradictions - longing and despair, but also anxiety that had long since crossed the line.

„you gotta be fucking kidding me,” he snapped suddenly, his voice raw and punctuated by nervous breathing. „you are mine. what the fuck do you mean you're seeing someone?”

his words hit you like a cold shower. you clenched your jaw, trying not to show fear even though your heart was beating like crazy.

„I don’t have to tell you anything!” you hissed back.

his grip weakened as if he had suddenly realized how much he had crossed the line and what had really happened. he withdrew his hand slowly, his gaze wandered somewhere far away.

he remained silent and the silence between you was thick and uncomfortable, filled with words no one wanted to say, but that hung in the air, ready to explode at any moment.

you sank to the floor in front of him, tears running down your cheeks involuntarily. you looked up and met his horrified gaze.

„I'm sorry,” he whispered in a breaking voice, kneeling beside you.

"it's too late for that,” you replied just as quietly.

you stood up carefully, feeling him watching your every move. you opened the balcony door again, feeling a sudden, almost desperate need to smoke. the air outside was cooler than before, but it brought relief.

with trembling fingers, you took a cigarette out of the crumpled pack, each movement required strength you no longer had. the lighter went off on the second try - the flame illuminating your face with a golden flash.

you inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill your lungs as if it were your only lifeline. for a moment, the world stood still.

then, seemingly unnoticed, you felt him standing next to you again, his arm nearly touching yours. he didn't say a word; he just looked up at the sky as if searching for an answer.

„we were good together,” he said, barely audible. he turned his head and looked at you with the same familiar softness in his eyes that used to break and put your heart back together.

„weren't we?” he added after a moment, desperately needed you to confirm his version of the past.

„I guess so,” you replied coolly, putting out your cigarette against the metal railing of the balcony.

because it was true; you were good before everything started to fall apart.

you looked again in the direction of the blond man. his eyes were barely open, filled with fatigue and resignation. his body was limp. all the strength that had held him upright had just left him. he leaned against the railing, shaky and fragile - a far cry from the man you once knew.

on the horizon, dawn was beginning to break. the pale light of morning slowly spilled over the rooftops of Amsterdam, exposing everything the night had tried to hide.

„I think, you should go to sleep,” you said, no longer looking him in the eye, your tone calm but distant, as if you were speaking to someone too far away to hear you clearly.

Joost didn't answer right away, just nodding almost imperceptibly, like he knew, he had nothing more to say.

„come on,” you said softly, taking his hand, which was heavy and inert.

you led him slowly through the apartment, taking the familiar route you used to take with a smile, but now there was only silence and the quiet clatter of his footsteps against the floor.

when you crossed the bedroom threshold, you felt something sultry rise inside you. you helped him sit on the bed and he did not protest; he looked at you with tired eyes like he wanted to say something more.

you took off his jacket and a t-shirt, then began to unfasten his belt because you knew he wouldn't be able to do it himself. Joost looked at you with a silly grin.

„all I had to do was get drunk and make a scene at the door for you to undress me again? oh, I’m here for it,” he laughed quietly under his breath.

„oh, shut up, please,” you replied, finishing removing his pants while avoiding his gaze. „you can sleep here. I'm going to sleep on the couch.”

Joost blindly lay down on the bed, his head sinking into the pillow as if it weighed more than the rest of his body. he looked at you from under his disheveled hair. he looked tired but still had the same helpless hope in his eyes.

„I want you to sleep here, actually,” he said quietly, as if afraid that louder words might discourage you for good. „please…?”

you stood over him for a moment, considering all possible scenarios, finally nodding silently and sitting down next to him on the bed.

„okay,” you whispered. „one last time.”

without a warning, Joost pulled you closer, you were now lying face to face with him. his uneven breathing mingled with yours, a mixture of relief and anxiety shone in his eyes. he was fighting with himself, trying to find anything that could fix what had long since fallen apart.

his eyes quickly scanned your face as if searching for answers to questions that had long weighed on him. after a moment, he closed his eyes, no longer able to fight the growing tiredness.

for a brief moment, you watched his calm face, trying to remember every detail. your hand touched his cheek involuntarily, gliding across it gently as if to keep him with you, at least for a moment.

you finally closed your eyes, wanting to fall asleep and forget this goddamn day.

„I love you, y/n.”

you suddenly heard a quiet whisper right next to your ear. it was so soft that it almost disappeared in the night's silence. your heart beat faster and a slight smile appeared on your face.

„goodnight, Joost.”