Nostalgia 𖹭 Joost Klein x Reader

𖹭 twenty-nine 𖹭

the power of love.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Third Person POV:

The steady click of your heels against the pavement seemed to echo louder than your thoughts, but it couldn't drown out the storm of emotions swirling inside you. Tears streamed down your face, blurring the streetlights and casting everything in a haze. Your heart pounded, not just from the argument but from something deeper—a fear you had tried so hard to bury.

Your mum was right.

You had pushed away the idea for so long, convinced that you could find love without having to face the scars left behind. But now, in the wake of Joost's anger, you couldn't shake the overwhelming fear. How could anyone want you when you couldn't even bring yourself to do something so normal, so expected? You'd barely even kissed anyone before Joost, let alone thought about being intimate, especially after what happened.

Why would anyone want you?

The thought clawed at your insides, twisting like a knife. Every tear felt like a confirmation of what you had always feared—that you were broken, that you would always push people away because you couldn't give them what they wanted. You couldn't even figure out how to move past your own fears, and now you had pushed away the one person who had ever made you feel safe, made you feel wanted. And yet, in that same breath, you questioned if Joost really did understand you—if he truly knew what you had been through.

Maybe your mum was right all along. Maybe you were unlovable. You hadn't said the words to Joost yet, and now, maybe you never would. You couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same way—that you weren't enough, that he was growing tired of waiting for you to be ready. How could anyone stay, knowing that you couldn't give them what they needed? Knowing that you were terrified of intimacy, terrified of sex?

The lump in your throat grew, and your chest felt tight. It wasn't just about Joost anymore; it was about every painful memory, every time you had been made to feel like you weren't enough. Every part of you that had been chipped away, leaving you feeling like you were only half a person.

How could you let someone love you when you didn't even know how to love yourself?

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Third Person POV, 19 years old:

The sound of the phone's camera echoed in the small bathroom, filling the silence with an unwanted reminder of what you had just done. You sighed, your fingers trembling slightly as you inspected the photo—your own reflection staring back at you from the screen. It wasn't what you wanted, none of this was, but you bit your lip and sent it to Daan anyway. It wasn't like you had a choice. At least, that's what you kept telling yourself.

With a soft huff, you wiped away the lone tear that had managed to escape, brushing it off your cheek before tugging your bra and shirt back into place. I hate this. The thought flashed through your mind, but you pushed it down, just like you always did. This was for him, wasn't it? For Daan. He said he loved you. That's what mattered.

You grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder, heading out of the bathroom and making your way to class. But the weight in your chest was heavy, as if every step reminded you of what you had just done. Every time you sent one of those photos, it chipped away a little more of you. And every time, it hurt just a little bit more.

But you did it anyway.

Because Daan had said it was important. He said if you didn't do it, it meant you didn't love him. And you wanted to prove that you did, even though deep down you knew it wasn't right. You didn't want to send those photos, you hated the way it made you feel—exposed, vulnerable, like something to be judged. But Daan said that's what relationships were about. You had to show you cared, show you were committed. And he said if you didn't, if you couldn't, he might start looking somewhere else. He might cheat.