Journey || Erik Durm

♂

ERIK:

                  AFTER Lotte's disappearance, time churned in a cloudy mirage of mist and smoke, coursing in a tedious haste. The passage between night and day seemed endless, and yet, mornings came and went, giving birth to inky skies that too quickly surrendered to the light of dawn.

Summer convulsed into autumn, and Berlin suffered heavily with late summer rains, slowing down the pace of our football practice. By the time September emerged, the team suffered with severe allergies, but we toiled on the field regardless, eagerly counting down the days to Russia.

Mama recovered within a few weeks, ignoring her doctor's suggestion to continue on without strenuous work for a several weeks. Within the first night of her discharge, she returned to the diner, and slowly but eventually, we convinced ourselves that we were okay without Charlotte.

It was obviously difficult for Mama, who seemed to grow moody due to the growing workload. There were tedious tasks, like stocking the pantries and managing deliveries, that Lotte usually did; with her gone, we fell short.

There were days when Mama would nudge my shoulder, telling me It's okay or We just have to go back to the way our lives were before she came around, and I would chuckle in amusement, wondering if I was the one doing the missing or her. I suppose sometime between the heartfelt conversations and early morning adventures, Lotte had charmed her way into Mama's heart.

I tried to assist Mama around the diner anytime I could, but as winter approached, I returned to Dortmund for games with Borussia. Die Mannschaft would meet again in the spring—the world cup was in the summer to come—and so it became more difficult to see the team and my family.

We traveled a lot, and locker room conversations increasingly became rigid when I entered, especially if Marco was somewhere nearby. The boys talked of beautiful goddesses disguising themselves as women and their immediate futures, and while I eavesdropped on Marco's conversations with Kevin about the goddess he had met in our diner in Berlin that summer, I grew dejected with regret.

Coach Tuchel was wearier about the press than Jogi was, especially with Borussia's faltering image, so he forced Marco and I to spend more time together in public in a weak attempt to debunk the press reports about the two buddies who had willingly given up their relationship for a fleeting coffeehouse romance.

After a tiresome victory against Köln one afternoon, the boys headed out to celebrate dinner, but Marco waved them off in obvious exhaustion, and I, noticing it, stayed behind with him. There were sounds of footsteps pounding against the concrete floor and eager chatter until there wasn't.

Marco shoved his cleats onto his duffel bag and made strides toward the exit, and I followed him to his hotel, parking the car a several cars behind his.

I'd heard the number of Marco's hotel room being exchanged in locker chatter, so I wondered then what I would say if I ever made it to room 120. Marco and I had never gone weeks—days even—without talking, and here we were nearing two months.

I closed my eyes, and heaving out a sigh, slid out of the car, locking it.

I was already in front of Marco's room by the time my eyes were open, and slowly, everything came into focus, especially the details of my knuckles as they pounded against Marco's door.

Stillness occurred momentarily until a familiar shade of blonde slithered into my vision; they were accompanied by monotonous eyes.

"Don't," I said sternly when Marco began to close the door, stopping it with my foot. "Please don't."

Marco remained unmoved, saying nothing.

Standing there in the middle of the hotel corridor, I suddenly felt cold and distant, wondering if I had made the wrong decision by coming here. There were so many things that I wanted to say to Marco, like how much I had missed him, and that it wasn't like us to stay fighting for this long, but I had arrived without practicing any of the sentiments, so I was at a loss.