Echoes in Berlin

He said, ‘Don’t fall in love in foreign cities - it never lasts.’ I should’ve listened

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A distant world, wrapped in silence

November 17th  

Berlin is cold in a way Nairobi never taught me to prepare for. The wind bites like it has a personal vendetta. But the streets? They’re alive.

Every graffiti wall screams freedom. And that’s how I met Caspar, with paint-streaked fingers and a cigarette that he never finished.

He asked if I wanted to be in his mural. I said no. He asked if I wanted coffee. I said maybe. But I meant yes.

November 24th 

The café on Wrangelstraße became our ritual. He always ordered black coffee. I ordered milchkaffee and struggled with the pronunciation.

He sketched while I read Chimamanda. His sketchpad overflowed with strangers. One day, I saw myself - lips slightly parted, scarf loose around my neck.

He called it "In Between Languages."

I asked what that meant.

He said, "That’s how you look when you think in Swahili but speak in English."

December 2nd 

First kiss. Snowflakes fell between us, melting on his cheek as I leaned in. His lips tasted like cold smoke and cinnamon. I laughed when he whispered, “I could draw your laugh.”

I whispered, “Then you’ll never get it right.”

December 15th 

He met my roommates. Lina called him a walking stereotype. Tall, mysterious, brooding artist. But I couldn’t explain why I stayed.

Maybe because he listened. Maybe because I was lonely. Maybe because we watched the moon rise over Spree and he said, "Sometimes, I think you're a poem I forgot how to write."

God, I was so naive.

December 25th 

He didn’t call. I spent Christmas watching "The Holiday" and pretending not to check my phone. He texted at 2:43 a.m.:

"Merry Christmas, Karimi. I'm sorry, I got caught up painting. Tomorrow?"

I said yes.

January 3rd 

We fought.

He said, “You’re too intense.”

I said, “You’re too vague.”

He said, “You’re not from here. You don’t understand how things work.”

I said nothing.

He touched my shoulder, apologized, kissed my forehead.

We made love. The kind that feels like an apology wrapped in silk.

January 14th 

His flat smelled like turpentine and coffee. I found a hairbrush in his bathroom that wasn’t mine. Blonde strands. Long.

He said, "It’s my sister’s. She visited last week."

I believed him. Not because it made sense, but because I wanted it to.

January 28th 

We went to the museum. He stared at a Klimt piece for ten full minutes and then said, “I want to paint your sadness.”

I laughed. “That’s bleak.”

He replied, “But beautiful.”

I started to wonder if I was just a concept to him. A brushstroke. A story he could sell to himself.

February 4th 

Lina found his Instagram. Private. But the tagged photos weren’t.

One showed him and a girl in Venice, timestamped just three weeks ago. She called him mein Herz. Her name was Leonie.

I stared at the photo for a long time. Then texted him: Who is Leonie?

He replied after an hour: It’s complicated.

I replied: So are we.

Then I blocked him.

February 9th 

He came to my door. Eyes tired. Lips chapped. Paint on his jeans.

“I should’ve told you.”

“Yes.”

“She’s… someone I knew before. I thought it was over.”

“Did you sleep with her while you were with me?”

Silence.

He looked away.

“Goodbye, Caspar.”

I closed the door. It felt like slamming shut a chapter I hadn’t finished reading.

February 20th 

Berlin feels colder now. Not the weather. Just... the air. Like it knows.

I pass Wrangelstraße but don’t go in.

I hear he has a new show opening soon.

February 28th 

I saw it.

The gallery was quiet. Mostly tourists. The exhibit was titled Whispers and Echoes.

And there it was: me. My naked back. The curve of my spine. The mole near my right shoulder blade. My scarf crumpled at my feet.

He painted me without permission.

I stood there for a long time. One woman whispered, “She looks haunted.”

She wasn’t wrong.

I turned around and left. No tears. Just echoes.

Final Entry

I wrote this journal to remember. But I think I’m ready to forget.

I still carry the chill of Berlin in my chest.

But maybe spring will find me soon.

Maybe.

* * * *

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