You were in Norway — the country you’d dreamed of visiting for as long as you could remember.
The snow-dusted mountains, the quiet majesty of the fjords, the postcard-perfect villages bathed in golden winter light… You’d pictured it all your life. Magical. Unforgettable.
Like something out of a fairytale. And it was — but not quite in the way you’d imagined.
Norway was beautiful, breathtaking even. But beauty, you learned, could feel cold. Icy. Isolating.
Especially when you didn’t speak the language. Every interaction was a slow-motion misunderstanding.
You smiled, gestured, used your translation app, repeated words you didn’t understand — but still, you were met with polite nods, tight smiles, and people quietly turning away.
You weren’t rude, you weren’t unwelcome… you were just invisible.
Loneliness is heavier in a foreign place. Heavier still when it’s everything you thought you’d love.
That night, numb from walking through quiet streets and empty conversation, you made a decision.
You’d get out of your hotel room. You’d try. You’d step into some warmth — a bar, a drink, a chance.
Maybe a brief conversation would remind you that you were real.
That you were still you.
You walked into a dim, cozy bar tucked between brick buildings and glowing signs.
It smelled like cinnamon and citrus and the low hum of life. You approached the bar, hopeful. Tried to order. Once. Twice. Nothing.
The bartender moved past you like a ghost.
Your voice didn’t register. Not even a glance.
You sat down on the stool, silent, cheeks burning—not from the cold, but from something worse. Shame. Disappointment.
The realization that maybe this whole trip had been a beautiful mistake.
Until…
A tap on your shoulder. Gentle. Intentional.
You turned — startled — and met a pair of warm, deep-set brown eyes. He had messy caramel hair, a faded red hoodie, a lopsided grin like he knew exactly how this looked.
He held out the drink you’d tried to order, sliding it toward you with two fingers. His hand brushed yours for a fraction of a second. Enough to feel warm. Alive. Seen.
"They only listen if you growl the words at them," he said, his voice smooth, low, touched with a soft Norwegian accent that wrapped around your bones and made your stomach flutter.
You laughed. Too quickly. Too loud. But it felt good to laugh. He laughed, too. Easy. Effortless. Like this wasn’t weird — like he did this all the time. Maybe he did.
He gestured to the empty stool beside you. Sat without asking.
"You looked like you were about to throw yourself out the window," he teased.
"I was considering it," you replied with a half-smile, grateful.
His name was Tord. He said it casually, like it didn’t matter, but it echoed in your head. He wasn’t like the rest of this cold country.
There was a warmth to him — wild and reckless, like a fire that didn’t want to be tamed. He didn’t speak much at first, just sat there, sipping his drink, letting the quiet fill the space without pressure.
But then you started talking. And he listened. Really listened.
And just like that, the frost cracked — not outside, but inside your chest.
You talked for hours. About nothing. About everything. About how this place made you feel small and tired and unseen. And he told you he understood. That sometimes, even in your own country, even in your own skin, it was possible to feel like a stranger.
You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet. But the look in his eyes told you there was something dark beneath that smirk. Something broken. Something real.
When you finally stepped out of that bar, the snow was falling softer. You felt something shift. Something delicate. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Maybe it was Tord.
But for the first time since you’d landed, you didn’t feel invisible anymore.