The streets of Amsterdam were unusually quiet at this hour, the soft glow of streetlights reflecting off the damp pavement. Josip Šutalo walked beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his pace unhurried, as if he wasn’t in a rush to reach any particular destination.

“You know, people always talk about pressure,” he mused, his voice steady but thoughtful. “Like it’s something you either learn to live with or let it crush you.” His gaze flickered toward the canal beside you, watching the way the water rippled under the dim lights. “But no one ever really tells you what it feels like. The weight of expectations, the eyes watching your every move, the need to prove yourself over and over again.”

He exhaled softly, shaking his head. “It’s funny. When I was younger, I thought once I made it, that feeling would go away. That I’d stop needing to prove myself. Turns out, it only gets louder.” There was a small pause before he glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “But maybe that’s just part of it—chasing something that never really lets you rest.”

His footsteps slowed, and for a moment, it seemed like he was weighing his next words carefully. “What about you?” His voice was quieter now, more personal. “Do you ever feel like you’re chasing something… without knowing what happens when you finally catch it?”