You weren’t just a stylist to Joost Klein. That was the official version, the one people saw when they looked at you backstage or in dressing rooms, pinning fabric, fixing collars, adjusting something last minute while he pretended not to care. But a year of working together does something to people. It blurs lines. You learn the way someone breathes before going on stage, the exact second they start getting nervous, the stupid little habits they think no one notices. And he let you see all of it. Not at once, not intentionally, but enough that it stopped feeling like just work.

At some point, people started talking. The kind of looks, the kind of timing, the way he’d always end up near you even when there was no reason to. The way you didn’t move away. It wasn’t obvious, not enough to call it something real, but it was there—something unfinished, something that never got named. And maybe that was the problem.

Then Eurovision happened. Or rather, everything that came after it.

Being disqualified didn’t just mess with his career, it got under his skin in a way that didn’t leave room for anything soft. He didn’t break down, didn’t explode the way people expected. It was quieter than that. Colder. Like he just... shut a door somewhere inside himself and decided not to open it again.

With everyone else, he was still Joost. Loud, chaotic, a little reckless, joking too much, drinking too much, smoking too much, talking about future shows like nothing could touch him. But with you? It was different. Noticeably. Uncomfortably. You went from being the person he’d look for first to someone he barely acknowledged unless he needed something. “I need an outfit for Friday.” “Bring options.” “Something simple.” Just work; Distant and controlled.

You told yourself it was temporary. Stress, pressure, whatever. That he’d come back around. That he’d say something, explain it, fix it. But he didn’t. Weeks passed, then more, and at some point you had to stop pretending you didn’t notice the way he avoided being alone with you. The way he looked through you instead of at you. And the worst part? He never gave you a reason.

So when Alanis texted you in early February(2025), asking if you wanted to come out for drinks, you didn’t think too much about it. Or maybe you did, and just chose not to admit it. But you showed up anyway - dressed like you always were, like it mattered. And of course, he was there.

Sitting at the table like nothing had changed, like the last few months didn’t exist, like you were just another person walking into the room. But the second his eyes landed on you, something slipped. Just for a moment. Quick enough that no one else would catch it, but you did. You always did. His gaze paused, just slightly too long, like his brain lagged behind the rest of him. And then it was gone. Replaced with that same neutral expression, that same distance he’d been keeping so carefully. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. Just took a sip of his drink and looked away like it didn’t matter.

02:01

The cold hits harder this time, or maybe it’s just you noticing it more. You step outside and let the door fall shut behind you, the noise from the bar instantly dulling into something distant, almost unreal. For a second you just stand there, breathing in the cold air like it might clear your head, but it doesn’t. Nothing really does tonight.

You move toward the railing, heels clicking unevenly against the ground, pulling a cigarette from your bag with fingers that don’t feel entirely steady. The lighter slips once, twice, before it finally sparks, and you let out a quiet, almost annoyed breath as you take the first drag. Smoke fills your lungs, slow and heavy, and you close your eyes for a second, just to feel something stable. It’s quiet up here. Too quiet. A small hiccup escapes you, and you huff out something that might’ve been a laugh, shaking your head slightly at yourself. You focus on the city lights instead, letting them blur just enough to stop thinking.

Then the door opens again. You don’t turn. You just know. Joost Klein steps out, but he doesn’t come over this time. You hear it in the way his footsteps stop further away, the distance clear even without looking. He stays near the door, like there’s an invisible line he’s not crossing. For a while, neither of you says anything.

You take another drag, slower, more controlled, even though your head still feels light. You can feel him there without seeing him, like a presence sitting just at the edge of everything. It’s different like this. He lights a cigarette too - you hear the click, the brief flare, then silence again. Smoke drifts into the air from two different directions.

You finally glance over, just slightly, enough to catch him in your peripheral vision. White shirt, sleeves rolled, tie loose, head tilted slightly down as he exhales. He doesn’t look at you.

It stretches. You think about saying something. Don’t. He shifts his weight, barely noticeable, like he’s about to move... but doesn’t. And then, after what feels like too long and not long enough at the same time, he speaks.

— “Y’know,” his voice cuts through the cold air, low, rough, like he hasn’t decided if he should be saying this at all, — „you really fucked something up back then.”