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There are more cracks in the ceiling than last year; I’m sure we’ll end up collapsing. You can always go further. I haven’t seen Jørn or Jan in days; they always run away when things get complicated, and they’ve realized how unsustainable this is. No matter what those idiots think, they never cared anyway. I hate this damn rain. I can’t get out of these four walls, and I’ve ended up thinking about the same old crap. I don’t want to be honest; I don’t want this to go to hell. We can still do something, though I’m not sure what.
Mom keeps calling me to say the same old nonsense. She thinks I’ll come back and agree with her, but she’s the one who’s wrong, because I know I’ll never be able to live like everyone else. And then there’s Pelle. I think about him more often than I’d like, and all kinds of questions pop into my head, and none of them seem to have an answer. He’s stopped leaving his room, and every time I try to talk to him, things get worse. We fight more and more, and it’s always about money. He’s getting desperate. He doesn’t understand that he’s not the only one having a hard time, that I’m trying my best, that this is all I have.
I didn’t want to end up here; thinking about this makes me feel what I can’t afford to feel—I can’t break down. What does it matter if he thinks I’m a damn selfish person, that I’m not capable, that I lied to him, that we’re not going to make it.
I would never admit it, not in front of him. I thought he wouldn't be capable of hurting me; I thought he'd remain indifferent.
Pelle was a stranger to me three years ago, and now he’s the one who seems to know me best. I shouldn’t have gotten too close, but the truth is, I couldn’t help it. I suspect he’s always been this way—that he has a magnetic quality others can sense. Getting lost in the past is bittersweet; there are days when I wish I’d never met him, and days when I wish I could go back to being who I was before him. Last summer I thought Pelle was the best thing that had happened to me in years, someone special who could see me, someone who could understand me. Two winters ago I stopped feeling alone and thought we could make it work. Maybe I should just give up, send Pelle home, and forget that any of this ever happened—let Jørn have a family and not scold Hellhammer for leaving without a word. I’d have to find myself an eight-hour job with a terrible salary and rent a tiny apartment for the rest of my pathetic life. It’s the right thing to do, it sounds right, logical, and it’s the best option, but I can’t. I can’t let this just fade away. I’ve come too far; I can’t live without this, I can’t do it without them, I don’t want to let it die.
Pelle is right, I'm a damn selfish person and I can't help it. Him—again, him, who always thinks he's damn right—because he's the selfish jerk who never listens to what I'm trying to say, who doesn't want to leave his stinky room. He's the one who doesn't care about anything; he can never see that I do everything in my power, yet he always demands more and more.
He’ll end up devouring me, and even then he’ll say it wasn’t enough.
I should be answering the email, but I haven’t been able to move for over an hour.
Am I the problem? Am I the one who couldn’t make it work? Am I the one who doesn’t get it? I should be honest; I should apologize.
Last summer, Pelle seemed more human—someone I could reach, touch with my fingers—and now I can’t even see him. A loop—I should create a loop and stay locked in with him in June of last year, when we chased cats and his skin glowed in the sun, his hair flew everywhere, and he laughed from time to time. A loop back to the winter a year ago, when we had to sleep together to withstand the cold of the early mornings and I could feel how alive he was. I’m tired; maybe I can make it work for a couple more months and then I can let him go—at least he has to get out of here. I should sleep and fix it tomorrow.