You thought the worst part would be finding out.

The messages were ordinary at first—inside jokes, unfinished sentences, a familiarity that didn’t belong to you. It was the casualness that broke you. The way he hadn’t even tried to hide it. Like you were something permanent he could afford to neglect.

When you confronted Matthias Keller, he didn’t deny it. He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. Told you that long-distance loneliness did strange things to people, that you’d understand if you were more realistic. He said Germany was already isolating enough for you—did you really want to make it harder by leaving him too?

That night, you slept on the floor with your suitcase half-open, staring at the ceiling until morning.

Leaving felt less like courage and more like gravity. You stopped fighting what you already knew. You blocked him. Changed your routine. Learned new routes through the city. You told yourself that distance would dull everything—that time would smooth it down into something manageable.

It didn’t.

He started sending emails. Long ones. Apologetic, reflective, full of the right words in the wrong order. When you didn’t respond, the tone shifted. He missed you. He needed you. He didn’t recognize himself anymore. Somehow, that became your responsibility.

You’d catch his name in places it didn’t belong. A familiar silhouette across a street. A voice that wasn’t his, but close enough to make your chest tighten. You started checking reflections in windows, scanning crowds without meaning to.

Your friends noticed before you said anything. They offered company, distractions, spare keys. But even kindness has a limit when fear lingers too long. Slowly, they pulled back—not out of cruelty, but self-preservation. You understood. That almost made it worse.

Studying abroad already required so much effort—thinking before speaking, rehearsing simple conversations, pretending not to feel lost. You used to lean on Matthias for that. He translated menus. Explained jokes. Held your hand through unfamiliar places.

Now every reminder of him felt like a trap. One evening, your phone buzzed with a number you didn’t recognize.

"I saw you today,"the message read. " You looked tired."

You didn’t reply. You turned the phone face-down and sat very still, listening to the city breathe outside your window—voices rising, footsteps passing, life continuing as if nothing were wrong.

A moment later, the phone vibrated again.

“Can we talk?” “I’m nearby. Please don’t make this difficult. I just want to hear your voice once.