The past couple of weeks in Amsterdam had dragged on endlessly—heavy, prickly, uncomfortable. November here is always like this: rain taps at the windows like an uninvited guest, wind whistles through cracks in the walls, and the glow of streetlamps bleeds across the pavement in smudged yellow pools. But the cold you feel isn’t from outside. It’s from within. And it comes from the two of you.

It’s like you’ve lost control of yourself. You’re angry at the smell of rain, at the creak of floorboards, at the way he fries onions—every single day, over and over, as if that’s all he knows how to do. You’re angry at his cigarettes, at the scent that clings to clothes, to hair, to the sheets. You’re angry at him just for existing - for being there, breathing, walking, living beside you. You won’t let him touch you. You turn away. You stay silent.

And so does he. He’s withdrawn, vanished into himself, spending nights and days at the studio.

But this morning, everything changed.

Five tests. Five pairs of bright, relentless lines. Five times “yes.” You sat on the edge of the bathtub and laughed or cried. You can’t remember. Everything was a blur because of shock and endless happiness.

Now it’s evening. You’ve calmed down. Stand in the doorway of the bedroom, your hair still damp, droplets trailing down your neck and soaking into the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt, worn thin, with the faded logo of some festival you went to together, long ago. He’s lying on his back on the bed, typing something into his laptop. Joost had been staring at the screen, trying to get some words out, to focus on anything other than the ache in his chest.

You crawl onto the bed quietly, carefully. Sit beside him. Place your hand on his arm—warm, the delicate veins beneath his skin familiar to you, mapped by memory.

“Can we talk, Joost?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Keeps his eyes on the screen, as if words there could save him from this moment. His shoulders are tense, as if carrying something heavy—pain, resentment, fear. But at the sound of your voice, he freezes. Slowly lifts his gaze.

And he sees you. In his shirt. With wet hair. That expression on your face—shame, hope, and something so tender he hasn’t seen in too long.

“I'm writing” he says sharply, almost harshly.

You look down, bite your lip to keep from smiling.

“I wanted to apologize… I was a bitch during this week…”

He stares at you. A long beat. As if trying to read between the lines, searching for a trap. His eyes catch on the corner of your mouth—that faint twitch of a smile, the one he knows so well. The one that means you’re nervous. That you’re afraid but he is happy to see that you want to apologize, he can’t be angry for a long time.