Chapter Text
Joost lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the morning light crept through the blinds. The alarm clock next to him blared its synthetic chirp, a sound he had grown to hate but never changed. He blinked slowly, the blare digging into his skull, but it didn’t matter. Even if he turned it off, the noise inside his head would remain. It always did.
He reached over and silenced the clock, letting the sudden quiet fill the room, though it brought no relief. His phone buzzed next to him, a stream of notifications lighting up the screen. Emails, messages, reminders of appointments. He ignored them. They could wait. Everything could wait.
For a moment, he lay still, wishing he could melt into the mattress and disappear. The heaviness in his chest wasn’t new—it had been there for years now, a constant weight that pressed down on him, even in his sleep. He closed his eyes, but the moment he did, the overwhelming sense of suffocation returned, forcing him to sit up.
The room was bathed in pale light, sterile and cold. His apartment, once full of life and color, had become something like a hotel room: impersonal, functional, empty. Neutral-colored furniture, plain walls, and minimal decoration. Everything felt so… blank. There had been a time when the chaos of his creativity filled every corner, when the clutter of half-finished projects and sketches made the space feel alive. Now, there was nothing but silence.
With a sigh, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat still for a moment, elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. His eyes flicked to the phone again, to the endless list of things he needed to do, people he needed to talk to. But he felt nothing. No urgency, no motivation—just a quiet, gnawing emptiness.
Finally, he stood, dragging himself to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a version of himself he barely recognized anymore. His eyes were sunken, dark circles tracing the bags beneath them. His face was hollowed, tired, his once-vibrant energy sapped dry. There was something off about the man staring back at him, but he couldn’t quite place it. Joost knew it was him, but something had shifted. There was a strange detachment now, as if the reflection belonged to someone else—someone just wearing his face.
He ran the water in the sink, letting it pool in his hands before splashing it over his face. The cold shock of it jolted him slightly, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the fatigue that clung to him like a second skin.
Just another day, he thought bitterly, reaching for the towel. But another day of what? Endless performances, interviews, content creation? There had been a time when he loved it—every bit of it. But now, it felt more like a prison, a machine he had to keep feeding with more of himself. He had become a brand, a commodity, and the world’s constant demand for more, more, more had drained him of everything he once loved about being, well, himself.
Joost tried not to think about all that had been plaugeing his mind as he continued to get himself ready for the day. Brushing his teeth, taking a shower, brushing his platinum blonde hair, and throwing on a black turtleneck, baggy cargoes, sneakers, and a grey bomber jacket.
The drive to the studio was mechanical. Joost didn’t even remember putting on his clothes or leaving the apartment. He sat behind the wheel, eyes blankly scanning the road ahead, but his mind was elsewhere, drifting in the fog of monotony. The city around him passed by in a blur of grays and blues, the tall buildings casting long shadows over everything, making the world feel smaller, more confined.
When he finally parked and stepped out into the crisp autumn air, a slight breeze cut through his jacket. It was refreshing for a moment, like waking up from a long, dull dream. But even that small spark of life faded quickly.
Inside the studio, the familiar buzz of activity greeted him. Producers, assistants, a few friends of his—everyone bustling around, preparing for the day’s work. As he walked in, people greeted him with wide smiles, though he couldn’t bring himself to return them. He muttered a half-hearted hello and moved toward his station.
He had been working on new music, something, anything, to take his mind off of his unexplainable depression. But every time he sat down to write, his mind was a blank. The melodies, the words, the spark that once flowed so freely were now trapped somewhere deep inside him, unreachable.
“Yo, Joost! You good?”
The voice startled him, and he looked up to see Teun, a close friend of his, waving at him from across the room. Teun’s wide grin was infectious, or at least it had been in the past. Today, it was just another reminder that Joost wasn’t okay.
“Yeah, man,” Joost lied, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
Teun nodded, unfazed. “You’ve been killing it lately, bro. Maybe you just need a break?”
Joost let out a weak chuckle. “Yeah, maybe.”
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, but Joost’s mind was elsewhere again. Teun's words echoed in his head. A break? What good would a break do? It wasn’t the work that was killing him—it was something deeper, something darker that he couldn’t put into words.
Hours passed in a haze. Joost tried to write, tried to immerse himself in the music, but nothing came. It was as if his creative well had run dry, leaving him stranded in the middle of a desert. Each time he tried to force it, the frustration grew until it became unbearable.
By the time he left the studio, the sky was darkening, a muted gray. The air was colder now, biting at his skin as he walked to his car. He didn’t go home. Instead, he drove aimlessly through the city, the roads emptying as the night crept in. His phone buzzed constantly—messages from Teun and Stuntje, emails, notifications. He ignored them all.
He didn’t want to go back to the apartment, back to the silence and the suffocating emptiness. So, he kept driving, letting the streets guide him, no destination in mind.
Joost eventually found himself at the old park where he used to hang out before everything changed, before the fame and the pressure and the constant demands. The swings creaked in the wind, and the trees whispered secrets to the darkness.
As he sat on a bench, he finally allowed himself to think. Not the shallow thoughts that kept him going day to day, but the deeper ones—the ones he’d been avoiding for months. What was the point of any of this anymore? The music, the fame, the fans… what did it all mean if he felt nothing?
And that’s when he saw it. A figure, standing under the streetlight just across the park. At first, Joost thought it was a stranger, but as the figure stepped into the light, his breath caught in his throat.
It was him.
The same face, the same tousled hair - But there was something off. The version of himself standing there looked different—slightly longer hair, mainly black clothing and... a look in his eyes that perplexed Joost
The supposed double smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Joost blinked, his heart racing. What the hell?
He looked around, half expecting someone else to notice, but the park was deserted. When he turned back, the figure was gone, as if he had never been there.
Joost’s hands trembled as he stared at the spot where the man had stood.
It’s just your mind playing tricks on you, he told himself. You’re tired. You need sleep.
But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just that. Something was wrong. Something had shifted, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to go back to the way things were.
Joost groaned, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. He needed to get out of here. Get some sleep. It's not like he needed to think twice before heading back to his car, speed walking with a racing heart. He stared at the key in the ignition for a moment, biting the inside of his lip as he reflected on what he had just witnessed.
It was his mind playing tricks on him.
It had to be.
Joost finally returned to his apartment, his head spinning, thoughts tangled in a knot of confusion and unease. He collapsed onto his bed, his body exhausted but his mind wide awake. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of his alternate self flashed before him, that eerie smile burned into his memory.
He lay there for hours, wide-eyed and restless, until the first light of dawn crept through the blinds.