8. Januar 2013
Do you know the feeling when you wake up and though there is nothing to remind you of something special, you still think about it?
Do you know the feeling when you are sitting in the car and forgetting the time and afterwards you notice that you have thought about something special without having paid attention to the street?
Do you know the feeling when you would scream out to the world because you’re so angry that you’re head is going to break?
Do you know the feeling when you laugh the whole day and really have fun, but as soon as something reminds you of something special, reality collapses over you?
Do you know the feeling when you’ve know something for so long and you just don’t admit it because you can’t estimate what is about to happen after you do?
Then you probably have the same feeling as I do at the moment.
Mats starred at the words that he had written with a blue pen and sighed. This was no use. This faked therapy he had learned about in middle school didn’t bring any effort. Write down whatever is worrying you, you’ll feel better afterwards, because you confessed even if no one ever reads it. Rubbish, his wasn’t helping in any way.
It was shit to be in love.
Because this was the only thing this stupidity here was serving – he almost admitted it. If he had told someone about what he was thinking all day long, if someone was reading this, they would have attested love anyway. You only think about person X. When hearing a kitschy sad love song person X is coming to your mind. You always hope person X is writing. You worry as soon as you hear something uncomfortable about person X. And so on and on and on.
And all this hadn’t been a problem, if person X wouldn’t only have been a man.
Mats was good with women, he knew that. Respective magazines called him “Beau of Borussia”, in trainings lots of girls were only staring at him and he had to admit that he enjoyed it. If he only would have been in love with a woman he wouldn’t have worried at all – almost every time he gets what he wants with them. But this, he didn’t want this. Didn’t want it at all. He didn’t want him today and he hadn’t wanted him before at all. No, for god’s sake, this was nothing but trouble.
And as long as he didn’t spoke about the opposite, the pain had no chance to overwhelm him, because if there wasn’t any state of being in love, there couldn’t be any heart to break. Obvious, wasn’t it?
Mats stared at this calendar and noticed that the next national matches would be held in March. He knew it anyway, but it was nice to be reconfirmed, because until then he would hopefully have cured his torn ligament and would be with the team again. Actually it was good that the national team never had so much time together – like this he had less time to lay himself open to the other one’s presence and to hate himself a little more afterwards. And in the same second it was fucking shit, he wanted to be with him and to laugh with him.
Now it probably was better to concentrate his thoughts on the upcoming days, otherwise, if he fucked this up, we wouldn’t go with the national team at all. With the rest of the team he would be going to La Manga tomorrow so he was able to adapt himself to the sport and to finally get up his work again after he fully recovered.
Mats rolled his eyes, stood up from the kitchen chair and walked over to the sleeping room where his suitcase was laying on his bed, empty. On that side he didn’t use, that no one ever used. Of course every now and then Cathy lived here, but she had her own room – with a walk-in wardrobe, because when he had to get up for trainings early in the morning she hated to be woken, too. She knew that there was something going wrong between them and Mats knew perfectly well, what, but until today he had been too cowardly – or maybe too foresighted? – to tell her. Because, he really fear it, he didn’t want to trust her. It was possible to imagine that, if he confessed to her and asked her to keep playing her role as wag for him, she freaked out and sold the whole story to the press.
It shouldn’t bother him, it shouldn’t bother anyone, actually, especially when he thought about Hitzlsperger’s coming out this afternoon, but it did. Sure, the reactions had been nice until now, but Mats was still paying actively and anyway, he didn’t want to talk at all. As long as he didn’t tell anyone what he might be thinking, nobody’s impression on him would change.
No “I have always known that there was something about him!”, no “See!! I told you!” …
Mats walked over to this wardrobe and grabbed some underwear to put it into the suitcase, then put socks, two T-Shirts, one jeans beside it. Then to the bathroom, packing toilet bag, coming back, putting it in as well.
The doors of the wardrobe were still open when his razor had found a place in the suitcase, too, and with pressure in his chest he stepped nearer. He knew this feeling and he hated it.
You don’t go that low, he told himself, Stop it. Stop it, Mats, stop it. And just leave it there.
He didn’t stop, took out Manuel’s jersey and pressed it to his face, waited for some seconds, afterwards the fabric went into the suitcase as well, firmly hid under his other clothes.
8. Januar 2013
Do you know the feeling when you wake up and though there is nothing to remind you of something special, you still think about it?
Do you know the feeling when you are sitting in the car and forgetting the time and afterwards you notice that you have thought about something special without having paid attention to the street?
Do you know the feeling when you would scream out to the world because you’re so angry that you’re head is going to break?
Do you know the feeling when you laugh the whole day and really have fun, but as soon as something reminds you of something special, reality collapses over you?
Do you know the feeling when you’ve know something for so long and you just don’t admit it because you can’t estimate what is about to happen after you do?
Then you probably have the same feeling as I do at the moment.
Mats starred at the words that he had written with a blue pen and sighed. This was no use. This faked therapy he had learned about in middle school didn’t bring any effort. Write down whatever is worrying you, you’ll feel better afterwards, because you confessed even if no one ever reads it. Rubbish, his wasn’t helping in any way.
It was shit to be in love.
Because this was the only thing this stupidity here was serving – he almost admitted it. If he had told someone about what he was thinking all day long, if someone was reading this, they would have attested love anyway. You only think about person X. When hearing a kitschy sad love song person X is coming to your mind. You always hope person X is writing. You worry as soon as you hear something uncomfortable about person X. And so on and on and on.
And all this hadn’t been a problem, if person X wouldn’t only have been a man.
Mats was good with women, he knew that. Respective magazines called him “Beau of Borussia”, in trainings lots of girls were only staring at him and he had to admit that he enjoyed it. If he only would have been in love with a woman he wouldn’t have worried at all – almost every time he gets what he wants with them. But this, he didn’t want this. Didn’t want it at all. He didn’t want him today and he hadn’t wanted him before at all. No, for god’s sake, this was nothing but trouble.
And as long as he didn’t spoke about the opposite, the pain had no chance to overwhelm him, because if there wasn’t any state of being in love, there couldn’t be any heart to break. Obvious, wasn’t it?
Mats stared at this calendar and noticed that the next national matches would be held in March. He knew it anyway, but it was nice to be reconfirmed, because until then he would hopefully have cured his torn ligament and would be with the team again. Actually it was good that the national team never had so much time together – like this he had less time to lay himself open to the other one’s presence and to hate himself a little more afterwards. And in the same second it was fucking shit, he wanted to be with him and to laugh with him.
Now it probably was better to concentrate his thoughts on the upcoming days, otherwise, if he fucked this up, we wouldn’t go with the national team at all. With the rest of the team he would be going to La Manga tomorrow so he was able to adapt himself to the sport and to finally get up his work again after he fully recovered.
Mats rolled his eyes, stood up from the kitchen chair and walked over to the sleeping room where his suitcase was laying on his bed, empty. On that side he didn’t use, that no one ever used. Of course every now and then Cathy lived here, but she had her own room – with a walk-in wardrobe, because when he had to get up for trainings early in the morning she hated to be woken, too. She knew that there was something going wrong between them and Mats knew perfectly well, what, but until today he had been too cowardly – or maybe too foresighted? – to tell her. Because, he really fear it, he didn’t want to trust her. It was possible to imagine that, if he confessed to her and asked her to keep playing her role as wag for him, she freaked out and sold the whole story to the press.
It shouldn’t bother him, it shouldn’t bother anyone, actually, especially when he thought about Hitzlsperger’s coming out this afternoon, but it did. Sure, the reactions had been nice until now, but Mats was still paying actively and anyway, he didn’t want to talk at all. As long as he didn’t tell anyone what he might be thinking, nobody’s impression on him would change.
No “I have always known that there was something about him!”, no “See!! I told you!” …
Mats walked over to this wardrobe and grabbed some underwear to put it into the suitcase, then put socks, two T-Shirts, one jeans beside it. Then to the bathroom, packing toilet bag, coming back, putting it in as well.
The doors of the wardrobe were still open when his razor had found a place in the suitcase, too, and with pressure in his chest he stepped nearer. He knew this feeling and he hated it.
You don’t go that low, he told himself, Stop it. Stop it, Mats, stop it. And just leave it there.
He didn’t stop, took out Manuel’s jersey and pressed it to his face, waited for some seconds, afterwards the fabric went into the suitcase as well, firmly hid under his other clothes.
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