"Beige for Him, A Fucking Nightmare for Me: The Bullshit Price of Trying to Be Good"

I check my symptoms, meds, everything six or seven times a day. I keep checking myself, counting, double-checking, making sure I didn't mix anything up or miss a dose. I haven't—but something still feels off.

I feel I'm trying to actively remember how my everyday life should look like. What I do, how I do it, just to make sure I'm sticking to whatever normalcy is. I check all my actions up against symptoms - and then up against my baseline. It's almost impossible, and frankly quite exhausting, thinking every feeling over - figuring out which part of me I need to suppress.

I know this point my symptoms need to be persistent for at least four days or more, and at least three out of eight symptoms should show. Everything, by heart.

An exaggerated pressure to speak is one. I really can't say, as I tend to be outspoken already. Over the course of Amsterdam, I only think of the drinks Wednesday night, but I kind of know that was to escape August. I now keep hesitating before I speak, trying to figure out if I interrupted, or talk for too long. I can't even ask anyone - even Nick. I just figure someone will tell me if I am.

Hyperactivity or continued anxiousness is another from the checklist - I guess I am a bit restless, I want to keep my mind occupied, not drowning in daydreams of August. In Amsterdam though, I was just alert, anxious, hyperaware of his movements.

And it's usually paired with decreased need for sleep, which is another symptom. Previously, I've been high energy for days on end, only running on three-four hours of sleep. This is.. similar. Only if most of Amsterdam days I slept in, in his arms.

If anything, it's like my bed is doing its job better, or maybe my dreams are. Not that I remember any of them. I don't spring out of bed in the morning—I never have—but I'm up. Alert. I stick to no caffeine after noon, no alcohol. It's just this... pull. A need to do something the moment my eyes open.

I check my attention span. Difficulty concentrating - easy to distract - is another symptom. I do feel light-headed. My brain keeps looping—not only in a negative way, just... looping. Random thoughts, fragments, anything.

But I still hyperfixate. Most often on August. I kind of lose touch with reality, and find myself pushing myself in the daydreams, playing back all the memories from when I wasn't me.

First, I think of all the ways he lit small flames all over my skin with just a single touch. How his scent ignites this pull for me to want him closer than ever. How just thinking about his laugh makes my heart pound. It's magical for just the second it takes for all the memories to flash in my mind.

Then comes the reality check, the knot in my stomach and I force myself to pad myself on the back for letting him down. Telling myself I'm doing this for him, that I truthfully wish for him to be happy. But when the words, texts resurface, I'm attacked by stings. Like the pain knocks the air out of me and I still hate that I put him through, unwillingly the victim of my crazy.

Overconfident, outgoing, over familiarity or irrational behavior. Here I think it kind of clicks, I think back on the game of Never have I ever, where Nick and I shared our war stories, me opening up to August. Me, kissing him, breaking the very boundary I put up between us. How I cuddled up in his arms. Things I've never in my life would have done, if it wasn't for this. Everytime pictures of it come back I feel sick to my stomach.

This one might still linger as Andy seems nicer since I got back. It's been four days now. I told myself Monday was a fluke, but then Tuesday, Wednesday and now today—he's been... not a flat-out sadist. Maybe it's because the deal with Agneta's finally official, but I really don't know.

Another sign is an increased sexual energy. Well. It's there. Definitely. Every time I open my closet and see his hoodie. Every time I hyperfixate really. At all times really - It's like I can't really focus on anything else.

There's a bit about impulsivity.. in general, but easily detected by overspending. I don't feel it though, I still refrain from buying designer clothes I can't afford. I suppose my bank lady will call if I'm in trouble there.

And, there's the complete lack of appetite - like completely gone.

It's uncanny.

I tried Charlotte for an emergency-session, but she's on vacation. Of course. I was only furious for a second, before thinking she actually deserves to use that beach house of hers.

I called my psychiatrist. We went over the daily schematics—sleep, food, intake, stress, downtime. The only time I've felt that detail in an exchange is between divorced parents trading custody of a toddler on switch-day.

I questioned my Bipolar-rating. Thinking flickers of yellow would count as hallucinations, and therefore make me type 1 - instead of a mere hypermania where hallucinations don't appear. She told me – in a kind way – that it was just a figment of my mind. And overall, that it could appear as I was just.. imagining things - but like, sort of kind about it.

She thinks I'm okay. She wants me to stick with my routine. Carry on as usual. In a week, we'll see if adjustments to my medicine might be needed.
Which means I think I might be okay.
Or at least, I can believe I could be.

And just as that thought starts to settle, I remember: Thursday. Dinner. Tonight. With Felix.

It's meant to be a celebration. His new job. His win. His new direction in life. I told him I'd take him out, and it felt easy when I said it. Familiar. Safe.

I thought it might be the over-social symptom, but then I realized he's the longest-lasting thing I've let into my life—a friend with benefits turned into a regular non-messy fixture.

***

The trattoria is new. Moody and dim, tucked between a florist and a record store. Small enough to feel intentional. There are candles on every table, soft music bleeding out of the corners. White linens. Real menus. Real silverware. It smells like garlic and wine and something slow-cooked.

Too romantic.

He's already seated when I arrive, a white shirt that's clearly not his usual. Crisp but rolled at the sleeves, like he wanted to look effortless but planned the whole thing. He stands when he sees me, smiles, and for a moment I forget how this might go.

"You look good," he says as I slide into the seat close to him. His hand finds my thigh under the table, casual like always, but somehow it feels different now. More deliberate.

"I'm in my uniform," I say. It comes out flat. Skirt, blazer, boots—I could've worn this to a staff meeting - I did actually. I let my hair down before leaving the office. Added a smear of berry-colored lip tint in the bathroom mirror. It doesn't count as effort. Not really.

Still, he looks at me like I've done something rare.

We talk about his thesis, the stress of him making the deadline. It's easier than I thought. The waiter comes. We order. Pasta with something for me, something with lamb for him. A whole bottle of red - no chance I'm doing this sober. No appetizers.

We make small talk until the waiter disappears, and then there's silence.

Then:

"I want to get to know you," Felix says.

I blink. "You do."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I mean, I'm curious to know what you're like outside the bedroom, too"

I let it sink in for a second, bite down something about my kitchen counter, before he continues,

"I want to know what you're like when you're figuring something out. What you sound like when you're passionate about something. I want to watch your eyes when you're concentrating. I want to argue with you about—anything you care about. I want to hear you laugh when you forget anyone's watching. Not in the bedroom—just... out in the world."

My stomach knots. I'm trying to deconstruct the practiced speech he just delivered.

The wine arrives. The waiter pours a tasting into Felix's glass. He sips, nods. The waiter fills both our glasses and leaves again, the room softly folding back into itself.

He takes a drink, eyes on mine. "I've been thinking about you a lot. About how I've grown more and more curious about you. Not this drop-in, drop-out thing. Something real."

I look down at my hands. They're twisted in my lap.

"I like - what we have. I like normal," I say. "It's good, it works, right?."

As the words leave my mouth, I can't help but feel rejected. Still not even remotely sure if I should be having this kind of conversation in my state.

"But is that all that you'll ever really want?" he asks. "Or is it just easy?"

Anger boils within as I take in his words. How he belittles what our normalcy means to me. How he mistakes this as convenience and low-stakes affection. He doesn't realize this is all I can want for, and it's an important distraction that keeps me sane - most of the time anyway.

He takes another sip of wine. "You make me feel calm," he says. "Like I'm not trying too hard. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

That makes me ache a little—for him, maybe. Like he naively thinks that feeling will stick - if we change whatever we are to something else. He doesn't even consider that the you he's referring to only exists when we're naked.

I smile weakly. "I feel exactly the same. I need that. This thing" I let out just a breath of a laugh, "..the one where I don't even know your major - and don't feel guilty about it."

That throws him. He laughs, but it's tight. "Communications," he says. "Not that you'd ever ask."

I let that sit. He's right. There's something about the way he said it that makes me think he's beginning to re-think this whole night.

Our food arrives. The plates are beautiful. Mine smells like browned butter and sage. I should be hungry, but I'm not.

We start eating, silently. He twirls pasta. I stab half-heartedly.

"I'm not going to change into that person," I say finally. "I'm not going to change like you, I know it's not what I want..."

"But we already changed together, we already have something after three years," he almost interrupts. "I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm saying—I want to keep learning about you - explore this. This isn't something either of us can control, if it happens then it just do"

My chest tightness.

I stare at my pasta. "What if I don't want to explore?" I ask.

His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"What if I want you" I say. "Just as we are, nothing more?"

I'm holding my breath without realizing.

He reaches across the table, fingertips brushing my wrist. "I think I changed too much already to make that possible."

I instantly feel a stump on my heart. The words sound true to me, and realizing it just makes this feel like a goodbye I won't allow just yet.

"We don't have to change, " I say. "We can try going back to normal."

He exhales slowly, pulls his hand back. "Change's inevitable, even for you."

It sounds bitter, but he doesn't add anything to soften it.

We eat in silence for a while. The music keeps playing. The wine softens everything around the edges. The candle flickers between us like a truce neither of us can name.

"I just thought - hoped - that I was the one you were curious about, the one you would want to be more.. with" he says eventually. Quiet. Almost like it's to himself.

I want to yell at him. Tell him that I can't be normal without him. That I need him. I'm just not.. curious about him, about what this could be.

Being in an episode, right here, right now, unstable - unreliable - untrustworthy, is exactly why I can't afford to be curious, afford to change, or even entertain the idea that I could be anything more - anything else than.. what this was.

I understand he changed, and I feel deep in my gut that it's right for him. He should change, he's allowed to change, to want more at some point. He's got that privilege. So I don't yell, instead I say,

"I'm glad you told me."

He nods. But he doesn't smile.

We both pretend to finish our food. He pours the last of the wine into my glass. And somewhere between the pasta and the check, something small and unspoken breaks quietly in the air between us.

It doesn't shatter. It just... comes apart as we hug goodbye quietly, and depart in opposite directions.

***

I wake up with a headache that feels like it belongs to someone else. It lingers behind my eyes, heavy and slow — like I absorbed too much attention and now my body doesn't know what to do with it.

I know I shouldn't have had red wine - alcohol - but as the week progressed I'm starting to doubt if the episode really stretched any longer than Amsterdam.

Felix had been sweet. Honest. Nervous, in a very visible way. The kind that felt practiced and still somehow raw. I knew it was it, and maybe that's why it felt distant - settled - overwith - as soon as we parted.

There was just one bit that kept looping. All through the long walk home. Into my sleep. The way he talked about him being curious about me. Like it was innocent, and just there all of the sudden. It still just feels... odd. Like curiosity was something casual. As if it switched on like a desk lamp.

But maybe that's just me. I'm paid to be curious— research, brief, prep clients for markets, strategy sessions. I dig until I understand. I know how to formulate a question so it gets a useful answer. Curiosity, to me, is deliberate. Goal‑oriented. Strategic.

But with people... it doesn't work like that. Not really. I've never thought about why I'm curious about someone. I just am.

I don't know why he put it like a signifier, as a sign for him wanting more.

Curiosity just exists. No reason. It's more like the love of mankind - just.. wanting to know. It's like breathing—I notice a detail, and suddenly I just want to see the whole map.

I just.. can't wrap my head around it. It just keeps gnawing. And now again, in the office, when I wait for my americano — undercaffeinated, posture off, concentration a million miles away.

The morning starts with emails. Twenty-six of them. I'm barely through the third when the memory drops in like a push notification I didn't ask for:

"I want to know what you're like when you're figuring something out.."

Felix, leaning toward me across the candlelit table, voice low, expression soft. Like he thought it was romantic. Sweet.

I blink hard at my screen, reread the sentence in front of me twice, still can't make sense of it. My cursor just blinks. Mocking me.

Well. I tend to hyperfixate, is that what he really wants to know? Is that what he thinks more is?

Instead, my mind wanders to how he looks. I don't mean to think about him. It's just—his face comes to me, fully formed. The way his eyes narrow slightly. The stillness in his body. How he bites the inside of his cheek, sometimes showing a dimple. The tension in his jaw.

Not imagining him — remembering him in class, in office. The way his fingers hover above his laptop when he's reworking something dense. That slackness in his expression when he's deep into something, and the slight frown that pulls between his eyebrows. The fucking skittles. The way he tilts his head when he's unsure about a word choice. How he taps his bottom lip when he's thinking, without knowing he's doing it.

I can't help but feel the warmth picturing him sends through me. It's like instinct, I don't even know I'm summoning him.

I hope I never told him this. I think it would be creepy if someone knew those details about me. But it's like it just floats rent-free around in my mind.

By 11:20, I've finally started making decent progress on a cost estimate when Felix pops up again—not in my inbox, but in my head.

"...What you sound like when you're passionate about something."

I groan. Out loud. Full body. Desk-chair-creaking groan. Like a woman possessed by regret and secondhand cringe.

I shove my chair back dramatically, like that'll help. I have a meeting in ten minutes and I still haven't added the fucking budget figures. I'm supposed to be thinking about pivot tables and slide transitions—not existential crises delivered by ex-fuck-buddies and their unsolicited pep talks.

And then—of course—there he is. Not Felix. Worse. August.

Lit up like a solar panel, mid-ramble about how cubism is his and his mom's favorite movement in modern art. Animated, unapologetic, eyes bright, hands flailing dangerously close to the stove because he forgot he was still stirring the Ragú.

I actually snort-laugh. Alone. At my desk. Like a lunatic.

Because I know that face. I know what he looks like when he loves something. How it takes over his whole body. Like joy can't help but leak out of him.

And before I let myself go too far down that little memory rabbit hole—before I start imagining what his face would look like if I just.. —I slam the mental drawer shut. With force. Industrial grade. Padlock optional, shame implied.

No.

I take a long, defiant sip of my americano and go back to copy-pasting made-up numbers into my very important, very ridiculous PowerPoint deck.

This is fine.

Everything is under control.

I'm totally normal.

***

Friday seemed to go by in haze except for the unwelcome pictures, movies, memories of August, and a few from my night with Felix. I try. Really hard. To be good, look out for symptoms, regulation mechanisms, sleep, checking myself all the fucking time.

I plan. Stay busy.

Saturday drifts by with a Korean drama marathon and a blur of errands and lists, and by Sunday noon I realize—

I'm steady.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, I feel... even. Stable with daily sprinkles of darkness. No beaming. No static. No all-caps urgency.

I actually had breakfast and it tastes like something. I finish laundry and still dissociate halfway through. I check my meds, once—not five or six times. I sleep, not deeply, but enough to wake with clarity. A quiet steadiness settles in my chest like ballast. I'm not in it anymore. I know the difference now. This isn't that.

But the hyperfixation hasn't let up.

August lingers like an afterimage—sudden, specific. I'll be scrubbing the stovetop or pulling socks out of the dryer, and there he is again. That soft crease between his brows when he's thinking. The faint line at the corner of his mouth when he's trying not to smile.

It's not obsessive, exactly. Just... present. Always.

I tell myself it's just neural residue from the hypermania - the peak of dopamine. A harmless imprint. Nothing dangerous.

Still, I welcome the noise when I push through the door at Rick's. The familiar scrape of metal chairs, the buzz of too-loud conversation, the clink of dishes behind the bar. Safe territory.

Rick nods at me from behind the counter, sliding me a mimosa in a chipped tumbler. "Still alive?"
"Less erratic than usual," I say.
"That's good enough for me"
I give him a look, but don't protest.

Sam's already in the corner booth, sunglasses on indoors. Kat's sketching something in the margins of her notepad. Elly waves me over with a fork in one hand, her hair clipped haphazardly on top of her head.

"You're upright. Impressive," Sam says with a crooked smile.

"I'm somewhat sober," I say, sliding into the booth. "And I think—honestly—I'm stable."

Kat looks up. "Really?"

I nod. "No crashes, no soaring highs. Appetite's still on the loose, but I slept seven hours five nights in a row."

"That's basically a medal-worthy streak," Elly says, raising her glass.

Kat cracks her neck then groans, "I want a medal for showing up! You guys are killing me with those shrieky noises, can you just let me die on the altar of vodka I worshipped last night?"

Sam hands her an extra pair of sunglasses soundlessly, then lies down on the table next to Kat, whispers "I'm never poledancing at Sascha's again"

I ignore them both, "I mean it." then exhale. "It's weird. It almost feels like I... came out of something. And now I'm just—here. Breathing."

They all fall quiet in that way they do when something matters.

"And you're not freaking out about it?" Kat asks gently. Now upright with a weird electrolyte-mixture from Rick.

"No, I... I kind of like it," I say. "It's boring, but boring feels like the right thing now."

There's a beat, then Sam grins up from her green smoothie, "So you're just mentally sound and existentially confused now. Classic you."

Elly slams her mimosa down like a gavel. "Alright. It's aftermath time."

Sam adjusts her sunglasses. "Checklist?"

Kat pulls a pen out of nowhere like a detective. "We're doing this right. It's your favorite part, remember?"

I groan. "Right behind hearing about my drunken self. It's just—"

"Necessary," they all say in chorus.

Sam taps her notes app. "Okay, symptom inventory. Let's compare last week to our official List of Doom."

Kat reads off. "Number one: Overspending?"

"No," I say. "Unless you count a cab ride I regretted."

Elly eyes me. "No silk robe? No three identical jumpsuits in different neutrals? Not even a tech gadget to fix your life?"

"Just coffee and cling film," I shrug. "So no."

"Okay, we're off to a shockingly beige start, I even bought an electric guitar two days go, already sure I'm not going to play it a single time" Sam says. "Next: Oversharing."

I pause. "Yeah... definitely."

Kat raises an eyebrow. "Define."

"August - Diagnosis. History. You guys. Colleagues - Nick and I's greatest hits"

"Oh," Elly says, perking up. "Everything everything?"

"Bar fights, and mostly you guys being the best people I know "

Sam whistles. "Okay, that's a yes. Moving on."

Kat continues, ticking the list. "Hypersexuality?"

I blink. "Define... more than usual?"

Sam bursts out laughing. "You say that every time!"

Elly leans in. "Did you climb anyone like a tree?"

"Well. There was this brunette, but I was just. Mad to see her with August. I didn't even want to fuck her. I only wanted to, with him, never wanted anything more, and luckily, I only... kissed him."

"You forgot the part where you straddled him in a hotel room," Sam says, sipping her drink. "We're counting that."

I sigh. "Fine. Yes. But only him."

"See? That's star-wars-roleplay-sex-five-times-this-week-love, not hypermania" Kat says, scribbling something chaotic in her notebook.

"Next up," Elly reads. "Ecstatic mood? Grandiosity?"

I shrug. "I felt... amazing. Like invincible. Like I could carry everyone and everything. But I also thought I'd unlocked a new layer of empathy, so who knows."

"Okay but," Kat interrupts, "remember our Irish New Year?"

I groan.

"You insisted we could outdrink the Irish rugby team."

"We could have!"

"You puked on a barback and said, 'This is performance art.'"

"I stand by it," I mutter.

"And you tried to start a podcast in the bathroom," Sam adds.

"You were a very willing co-star - but okay, I admit that was a little symptomatic."

"But this time?" Elly presses. "It's not even close to that, it sounds like you were just... with him?"

"New Year felt almost as high as this," I say softly. "And then not even close, plus he didn't feel imaginary."

The table goes still a bit, a tension of sort, then,

"Next," Kat says gently. "Sleep?"

"Four to five hours. Maybe. But I was traveling, and it was only because he was fucking next door. Like. Right. Next. To. Me. So, that doesn't count."

"Frederika," Sam says. "It always counts."

"I wasn't spiraling," I insist. "I was... functioning. I showed up. I ate. I could make a to-do list and actually do it."

Elly points her fork at me. "Okay but function and control aren't the same. You can look fine and still be off the rails. So how do you feel now?"

I hesitate. "Steady. For real."

That gets a collective pause. Elly nods, then nudges me. "Aftermath concludes with only one to-do."

"Be beige?," I murmur. "I solemnly swear to never act like color again, not even boring-ass-grey."

Sam leans in, serious now. "I think you need to think about how you acted, felt, knowing it wasn't a hypermania."

"I don't trust any of it."

"Because it felt good?" Kat asks.

"Because I don't want any of it," I say quietly. "I hurt him. And I told him we should be strangers again. It felt like the only way to contain it and stop spilling bipolar shit out all over him. It's how it should be."

"Okay," Sam says, steady. "But what if you were wrong? What if you were actually just falling for someone and panicked because it didn't come with a warning label?"

"I can't risk it," I say. "That's not me being noble, that's me knowing myself."

There's a beat. Elly smiles. "Babe, you once serenaded a police officer with Lady Gaga to distract him from a broken taillight."

"And got away with it," I add, proud.

"Exactly," Sam grins. "You've been this person since day one. We don't get to blame all of you on bipolar."

I laugh. "I just need to stop it. Stop thinking about him every five seconds like clockwork - and for the record - I'm not spiraling."

That earns a round of exchanged glances.

"Okay, but like... why do you think about him?" Elly says, stirring her drink idly.

I shrug, too quickly. "No reason. My brain just caught on something familiar. I'm not worried about it."

"Sure," Sam says. "Except that's what people do when they're curious about someone. You go looking for patterns."

"Yeah, but that's the thing." I sip my mimosa. "I'm paid to be curious. For work. For clients. Curiosity is about getting to the truth of something. But with people... I never had to try. Either it's there or it's not."

Kat raises an eyebrow. "So what's it like when it is there?"

I blink. "It's not conscious. I just... know things. Like I remember how August holds a pen when he's stuck. Or the sound of his laugh when he's surprised. Or how his jaw shifts when he's trying not to speak."

There's a pause.

Elly sets down her glass. "Right. But you don't think you're in love with him?"

I shake my head. "No. I have no business thinking about him other than shirtless, well actually not even that." I pause for a beat, to get my line of thought back on track, "I mean—I know stuff about you guys too. That doesn't mean I'm in love with you."

Kat chuckles. "Please, the tension between you and me? Palpable."

Sam snorts. "I mean, fair. But still, curiosity isn't always objective. Sometimes it's personal. Emotional. Sometimes it's wanting to know, not needing to."

I stare at the condensation on my glass. "Felix said he just got curious about me. Out of nowhere. He told me he wanted to know what I'm like when I'm figuring something out. What I sound like when I care. Watch my eyes when I concentrate. Argue with me."

All three of them fall quiet.

"That's not nothing," Elly says after a beat. "That's someone trying to see you."

"I don't think so.," I say. "But it caught me off guard. It felt... like he equalled curiosity, something more than what we have - well had - actually."

"And August?" Kat asks softly. Not pressing, just floating the name.

I hesitate. "That's different. He's just... been around. My brain didn't know it was an episode. And now he's not around, nor should he. And I guess my brain's just holding onto him like a leftover instinct."

They exchange another glance, this time gentler. I brace for the speech. But it doesn't come.

Elly just leans in. "You'll figure it out."

I look at her, trying to figure out what the hell she's on about. Before I can process it really, Kat helps me out,

"I set a trash can on fire once,".

We all turn.

"I was sober," she says. "Just furious. It was last Tuesday."

We burst out laughing.

"I've slept with the librarian at the shitty library twice this week," Elly adds. "I still don't know his name."

Another round of laughs,

"I accidentally sexted my therapist on Monday" Sam says. "No diagnosis necessary."

"So what you're saying," I say, smiling, "is maybe I'm not the only one uniquely doomed?"

"You're a person," Kat says. "With chemistry and feelings and bad timing. And none of it makes you a failure."

"Or a freak," Sam says.

"Or a liar," Elly adds.

I breathe in, slow. For once, it doesn't catch in my chest.

Kat raises her glass. "To aftermaths."

Elly clinks. "To being more than the checklist."

Sam finishes it off. "And to the people who fall for those like us—and actually mean it."

I laugh—real, full, grounding. Keep toasting, sipping, and staying put.

***

On my way back, I feel a smile form on my face, thinking about how happy my friends were on my behalf. How, I can tell them that I do all the right things - keep myself safe - and don't end up as a burden to anyone. I know that's why I didn't tell my parents either, relieved they're not getting a call from the emergency room - that I caught it somehow early this time.

I still feel the tear in my heart a million times a day thinking how August got caught up in it, how I didn't catch it early enough for him to be left unharmed. How I'm constantly walking around hating myself for hurting him. I don't tell them that, they might just think I crossed beige and over into the opposite ditch.

So, I keep it quiet. Don't tell them how I want to see him, even though I have no right to. Don't tell them that I'm barely floating in the hellish sea of beige. Don't tell them I need to do it for him. Don't tell them that's the price of hurting him.

But, at home, there's no one to police me from pretending.

I'm already doing everything I should. Here, I can dwell in the dopamine residue, relive parts of the highest of highs I've ever been.

I get ready for bed, open my closet and feel just a tiny sliver of relief - knowing I can pull on his hoodie and feel like I'm tugging myself into him.

***

For someone who's hobbies are drinks, art and hook-up's, beige isn't a fucking walk in the park. So, I work. A lot.

That's how it starts. No real breaks, no long lunches. I stay in motion—slide decks, client calls, edits that don't need editing. I keep the windows in my browser open like anchors. As long as there's a tab blinking for my attention, I don't have to look at myself too long.

But halfway through one of those calls, it happens.

"I want to hear you laugh when you forget anyone's watching."

Felix. Again. Soft, uninvited, inside my head like he's sitting in the next chair. I press mute. Tip my head toward the ceiling.

I hate how much I remember it. The way he meant it—kindly. Kindly doesn't make it easier. He wanted honesty from me. Lightness. Joy.

I honestly don't remember what my real laugh sounds like anymore.

But I remember his.

The first time I truly heard it was in Copenhagen—Beef. I'd called him a true, blissfully ignorant optimist after he said I was a pessimist. He looked at me and just laughed—real, easy, warm. I felt it curl down my spine like a spark, like the sound was already imprinted for me to chase over and over again.

Sometimes I replay them in my head, like a playlist I don't want to admit exists. That stupid YouTube pitch—some guy earnestly trying to reinvent forks—nearly killed us. I laughed so hard I cried. He laughed so hard he wheezed.

His laugh always snuck up on both of us—sudden, unfiltered. The kind without warning, without polish. Just... joy. Human and whole. And for just a second, I feel it—that wish to be like that. Someday.

The client says my name twice before I catch it. I clear my throat, answer too softly.

I'm trying. Really. I even feel okay when I leave the office that night. Like I've earned my numbness. Like beige is a choice and not a cage.

At home, I light a candle I don't even like and make a list of small things to do. Watch the next episode of that Korean drama. Reorganize the shelf I just put up. I even try to cook—kimchi stew, because it looked easy enough on YouTube. It tastes like salt and cardboard. I eat half.

I tell myself I'm stabilizing.

The next day, the light above my desk flickers again, and I almost lose it. I close my eyes instead. Breathe in. Breathe out. Beige.

Until the interruption.

"I want to argue with you about anything you care about."

Another memory of Felix. Gentle again. Curious. I should want that—someone who wants to listen to me.

But all I hear is his voice when we debated dumb things. Steak. AI. Movie endings. The way he stayed calm, even when I got sharp. The way he never played to win—only to understand. The way his words are rooted, steady and precise.

I know what he sounds like when he cares. I don't even know if I remember what I sound like when I do.

I go back to the office kitchen in an attempt for bliss. Burn my tongue. Power through until nine. Another slide deck. Another meeting. Another hour rearranged.

And when I finally leave, I feel—almost okay.

I call my mom on the walk home. Tell her I'm tired, but good. That work's going well. That I've started cooking again. She laughs when I mention organizing my spice rack and says, "I knew those clear containers will get you started again"

And for a moment, I believe it. Almost.

Until I hang up and realize I still want to scream. Every single day, there's a moment where I want to break something. Loudly. Violently. Just to feel real again.

So I clean. I empty my closet like it insulted me. Nick comes over and helps me pick it apart. We fill two trash bags with sweaters and old dresses and whatever else I'm ready to let go of but probably never will. He tells me I'm getting a new life.

I nod.

I don't tell him I feel like I'm being erased, not recovered.

The next day, I work through lunch again. No appetite. No breaks. I click through emails until I can't see straight. This time the memory waits until late afternoon.

It isn't words this time. Just a feeling.

The ache of being seen—fully. Not in a flattering light, not curated. Just... seen.

I already know what he looks like when he cooks—focused, quiet, reverent like the kitchen is a cathedral. I know the pitch of his voice when he's exhausted but trying to sound fine. I know the shift in his posture when he's worried about his sister.

I know him in ways I never meant to.

And I hate that I do.

The truth is—I could go back to him. To Felix. He still sends the texts, but not the texts I want.

Felix: Thinking about you.
Felix: Want a drink after work?

I could say yes. Slide back into warm attention. A body. A distraction.

But I don't.

And I hate how virtuous that should make me feel.

It doesn't.

It makes me feel hollow. Muted. Washed out.

It makes me feel ashy beige—and not even the curated kind. Just, the one who doesn't even know how to feel okay in beige. Normally, my anger would be spilled on Sacha's dancefloor, my frustrations untangled by a stranger's mouth on mine, but I don't even want those things more.

And I don't know what to do with that. I don't even want the things I'm supposed to want—the little madness I thought I was allowed to have, the ones I want. Now I just want him to stop haunting me. Stop pushing me towards him, when I know I am the last thing he deserves.

So, I just make lists. Watch things that make other people cry. Rearrange things I don't need. Tell my mom I'm okay and believe it for thirty seconds at a time.

But I'm holding everything together so tightly, I feel like I might split in half if someone touches me the wrong way.

And still—I show up. I work. I don't text back. I definitely don't unblock him. I stay beige. And at night, I curl into his hoodie again. I pretend it's about warmth, about comfort. But I know exactly what I'm doing when I pull the hood down over my eyes and breathe him in.

I think about what I shouldn't: Dinners. Museums. Falling asleep during a movie.

When I do, I'm only mildly frustrated that I can't stop hyperfixating on August.

And hating that nothing else feels bright enough to want to touch.

***

Nick and I have a glass of wine at the office before heading out. Bo has coordinated this blind date for ages, and reconfirmed date, time and location with me three times.

They don't know, they still think I'm just.. Not the settling type, but that the right one can change it. I can't really do anything but play along at this point. For me, this is really a test for beige. If I can fool a blind date, I might convince myself I'm actually improving - being better, good enough.

I'm pretty sure Nick's role at this point is solely to make sure I leave the office in due time, and not get lost on the way there.

Bo said he was "a catch." Like he was handing me a prize he won in a raffle he didn't want to keep. "He's solid," he said. "Normal. Accountant. Very normal."

Now I'm sitting across from solid, normal, Kasper at a canal-side wine bar, on their terrace at a wooden table doubling as an oven.

The sun is merciless. Sweat trickles down my back as I sit. Kasper on the other hand, seems untouched by the heat, cool and collected in his casual shirt.

Kasper already picked a wine, and got us a glass each. Bo had let him know I drink everything "But in a way that didn't make me sound like a low key alcoholic".

I smiled politely instead of correcting the error in his intel. I did promise Bo to at least act somewhat normal.

The normal guy seems.. nice. Polite. Smiles a lot, even when I haven't said anything remotely interesting or funny.

I sip my wine. He's halfway through describing the difference between Danish GAAP and IFRS compliance. I think. I lost the thread somewhere between "fiscal year-end" and "income recognition.".

This is fine. This is what people do. Maybe Kasper could be my new Felix, even though I don't want one.

The clink of glasses and low hum of conversation wrapped around us, and from the corner of my eye, I caught Bo and Nick. They are sitting just a few tables away, trying hard to look casual but definitely not succeeding. Bo shot me a quick smile that I returned with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. I really hate that they think I need supervision.

Kasper declines when I offer him a cigarette. I'm somewhat relieved as I don't think I brought enough for him and me. Well, enough for my chainsmoking in an attempt to steady my nerves. Every time I flick ash into the tray, I catch his gaze, a flash of thinly veiled disdain. I tell myself to ignore it. Maybe he just doesn't understand. Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Give him the benefit of the doubt.

After I've tried to explain what I do, we're almost down a glass. He interrupts me mid-sentence and asks,

"What do you think of this wine? It's quite boring isn't it? Like, none of the citrus or floral notes it said"

Okay, interruption is not cool. Also, it's a bit of a dickish question. I'll let it go. "It's fine for me. It's good"

He waves a waiter over.

Implies they brought the wrong wine. Ask them to double check.

Again, a bit annoying, but not explicitly rude. Like maybe I'm imagining it. I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Keep it together. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.

I pick up explaining what I do, with just a bit less invested in reactions than before.

The waiter comes back before I finish. It's the one he ordered. He orders us both another glass of it, just to check.

I look at the waiter apologetically. Her polite smile doesn't falter - stays professional. Maybe he's just stressed. Maybe it's the heat.

I give up on explaining my job. Try to summon normal date questions. I can only think of Felix'. Before I even think to workshop it internally, I say,

"So, what do your eyes do when you concentrate?"

He blinks. "Sorry?"

I vaguely hear someone in the back letting out a laugh, and I get a feeling it might be my two worst friends.

I'm already aware of the crazy vibes I'm letting off, but I trust I'm no longer in an episode and just let it play out. Bipolar or not, I've never ever claimed to champion first dates.

"Your eyes," I say. "When you're focused on something—like, really in it. What happens to them?"

He stares at me like I've just asked what color his soul is.

"I don't know," he says, laughing. "Is that... something people know about others, or notice?"

"Maybe," I say. It somehow felt like the right kind of question. His reaction might be normal, but I don't think I like it. Maybe there isn't one right answer even.

He shrugs. "I guess I squint a little. Or furrow my brows? I've never thought about it."

"I hyperfixate - loose track of time, place, all surroundings really" I say.

"That sounds unhealthy" He says, and let out a sound too low for me to label it as a laugh or a scoff.

"Why do you ask?" He says.

"I don't know. I'm... trying to be better at asking things."

He smiles. "Well. You're full of surprises."

I don't know what he means exactly. But I'm not really full of fun surprises. I'm just trying very hard to act as a normal adult on a real date.

"What kind of things make you laugh unexpectedly?" I blurt.

He looks genuinely puzzled.

"Like, what just gets you? Silly stuff. Or... things you wouldn't expect to laugh at."

He thinks for a moment. "There's this guy on TikTok who pranks his grandma. She always screams the same way. It's dumb, but I lose it every time."

I smile, nod, take another sip. But really I just sit with a kind of quiet discomfort. Like I'm imitating curiosity. Wearing it like someone else's coat.

The waiter refills our glasses. Kasper picks up his, squints at the label of the bottle, and butchers the name of the French vineyard with full confidence. Then swirls the glass dramatically before taking a slow sip.

He smacks his lips.

Then gives a satisfied nod to the waiter,

"I appreciate you actually getting it right this time. That's rare. Complementary olives should be in order, right?"

I'm speechless. The waiter nods, not even a thin line of a smile.

Kasper leans in, encouraged, and over the wine-conversation.

"You ask questions like you're testing me," he jokes. "Should I be nervous?"

I glance over at Nick and Bo, hoping one of them will look over, notice my expression, save me. But they're wrapped up in their own world—Nick's head tilted toward Bo, their hands brushing under the table, smiling like it's their first date again. I know better than to expect help from that corner right now.

"No," I say. "They're not tests. I'm just... wondering what you're like. What you care about."

He launches into a lengthy description of his upcoming hiking trip. Then a recap of last year's route. A tangent about the politics of ultralight gear. I nod when appropriate. Smile when necessary. I ask a few follow-ups, just enough to keep it moving.

But it's soul-sucking at best.

I promised Bo.
YAK-SOK.
I told him I'd try. That I'd act normal. Suppress anything my gut tells me. Let the guy talk. Let Bo, myself, be proud of me for once.

"So," I say finally, out of ideas and patience, "what's something you'd argue about? Like, passionately. Not angrily. Just something you really believe in."

I already know I'll regret it.

Kasper shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Limit social benefits. Severely. Especially mental health support. People shamelessly milk the system. They make their issues everyone else's problem instead of dealing with it. You can't just let people opt out of life and call it a condition. Support it even. It weakens society."

His tone is so casual, it takes a second for the slap to register. But it lands—square across my chest.

I set my wine glass down slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Only my hand gives me away, trembling just enough to feel like a warning shot.

"I'm bipolar," I say. Calm. Crisp.

His eyebrows flick up.

"Diagnosed. Medicated. Managing it for ten years just fine, actually."

There's a beat. He looks like he's about to speak—maybe to soften it, maybe to explain—but I don't give him the chance.

"I don't want or need help. I've worked every single day to get where I am, and I'm not anyone's charity project. Based on your job, I'm pretty sure I'll be the one donating to you. And I sure as hell don't leech off the system."

He opens his mouth—probably to backpedal—but I'm already rising. I lift my wine glass and cigarettes in one smooth motion.

"Don't make it weird with Bo at the office," I say with a practiced smile. Just sharp enough to leave a mark. "I'll get the check at the bar."

The sun is still hot on my back as I walk away. But my chest feels... not clear, exactly. But lighter. Like I finally exhaled after holding my breath for hours.

Inside, my limbs go to jelly. I don't pause. I ask for a bottle, keep my glass, and slip out the other side of the bar, toward the canal. The stones are warm beneath me. The bottle and glass balance between my hands, fingertips buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

The city hums—soft conversations, gentle clinks of glass, bikes whispering behind me. But I'm stuck inside the moment. The heat in my temples. The shame that's not really mine. The quiet, brittle fury of being composed for someone else's comfort.

I pour the wine, slow and quiet. Take a sip. It's cold, but not cold enough.

Along the canal, everyone's in pairs. Or groups. Or tangled limbs. I'm alone. And still, it's a thousand times better than being across the table from Kasper.

I said it calmly. I said it clearly. No apology. No shame. Just fact.

But it still prickles. Not his words—I expected them, maybe. It's my own reaction. How hard I worked to sound normal. Beige. Polite. Palatable.

Because I'd promised Bo I'd give it a try. Because I said yes when I should've said no. Because some tiny, stubborn part of me still believes I should be able to do this. That a real adult, a normal adult, can sit through one fucking conversation.

I take another sip. Let my eyes drift down to the toes of my boots. The right one's scratched. There's a faint stain - the coffee from the first time I met August. Now, just little scuffs of proof that I'm here. That I said no. That I walked away.

A group of students walks by, laughing. One smells like sunscreen and cigarettes. I think about lighting one, but don't move. Just sit. Let it pass.

"I know."

The voice comes from behind me. I don't turn. Just pour myself another glass and hold the bottle out without a word.

Nick sits beside me with a sigh and an empty glass, settling onto the stone like we'd agreed on it hours ago.

"You're not a project," he adds, taking the bottle from my hand. "Or a burden. Or anyone's charity case."

"I said that out loud," I murmur, more to the canal than to him.

"You did."

There's a pause. The air smells like water and wine and something floral in the wind.

"I'm sorry," I say, quieter now. "About Bo. And lunch."

"Fuck that guy," Nick says flatly. "Kasper told Bo after you left. Bo's pissed. He feels awful."

I glance sideways. "He told you?"

"Of course. He went fullblown panicked teenager. Thought he'd committed a crime or something."

"He didn't." I say, meaning it.

"No. But Kasper definitely did."

"What do you think?" I ask, suddenly unsure if I even want to know.

Nick's voice is even, but his eyes don't quite meet mine. "I think no one should out anyone. About anything. Orientation, mental health, whatever. It's not theirs to say."

I take a breath, sharper than I mean to. "What's worse, you think? Outing someone's sexuality—or a mental health diagnosis?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Depends who you're outing them to, but not really - just don't"

I nod. Fair.

"But what do you think?" I ask again. "About me."

Nick turns, brow furrowed.

"What do you mean? Should I say something supportive now? Call you brave? Tell you I'm proud of you for keeping your breakdowns on a color-coded calendar?"

I roll my eyes, a laugh threatening.

"That would be weird," I say, "and I wouldn't believe you anyway."

He grins. "I'd mean it, though."

"Go back to calling me a pain in the ass," I say, pretending to shudder. "This version of you creeps me out."

He lifts his glass in mock solemnity. "You are a massive, magnificent burden to me. Diagnosis or not."

I snort into my wine.

Then he adds, more gently, "And sorry for making you talk about it. If you didn't want to. If you weren't planning to tell me. You just... didn't tell me, okay?"

"I trust you," I say honestly. "I guess I just didn't want it to get out at work. And mostly—I didn't want you to feel like you had to start... watching out for me."

Nick lets out a breath, shaking his head.

"You're off-base in like, ten directions. You having a diagnosis doesn't even begin to explain a fraction of your chaos."

I actually laugh this time. Real. From the chest.

"We've known each other for three years," he says, just a moment of pause, then, "I don't need a diagnosis to justify your nonsense. I've been right next to you through every one of yours, and mine, questionable decisions, drunk texts and kitchen-floor cry."

"Now, what does that say about me?" He says with an amused smile covering most of his face

"That you're a good old-fashioned idiot."

"Takes one to know one."

We clink glasses again.

Nick tips his head back, gazing at the sky.

"Bo's not mad," he says. "He actually sat back down after you left and started Googling legal reasons to report him to HR."

I raise an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Code of conduct violations. Hostile environment. Said he's gonna find something."

"Six glasses of wine and suddenly Bo thinks he's Olivia Benson." I say, with both admiration and surprise in my voice.

"You're not going out tonight, are you?" Nick asks, glancing at me.

"Oh no. I'm beige now. I need to be stable and shit, even though it kills me. I'm seriously two seconds from deep-cleaning the office espresso machine with a toothbrush."

He grins.

We sit there in silence a while longer. The wind softens. The water glows.

And for once, I don't feel like I have to shrink myself down to be allowed here.

I just sit. Side by side with someone who I trust is just a big of a mess as I am.