Treppenhaus

-Translations at the end-

--

"I can't do this anymore. We just don't work."
...
"I'm sorry."

Words cut deep sometimes.
They didn't even have to be specifically well worded to do so and maybe that made it worse.

How often had he looked at those two messages, hands shaking, barely holding in tears?
How often had he ended up crying anyways, since?
The answer was: more times than he wanted to admit.

"I can't do this anymore. We just don't work."

Not like he had given them a chance to, had he?
He had tried everything he could think of to save their relationship, turned every phrase, every sentence before speaking them out loud.
Germany had tried to do his best to understand what it was that stood between them and yet, Poland never seemed to want to fix whatever had gone wrong.

"I'm sorry."

No he wasn't.
Otherwise he would've told him in person and not text him two measly messages, not even specifying what he meant, after avoiding him for over a week.

Germany sighed and put his phone away, staring at the unopened bottle of beer on the TV table.
He debated wether to drink or not while the YouTuber on screen babbled absolute nonsense.
Something about cancel culture and drama.
Germany turned off the TV.
Playing with the bottle opener, a cute cow shaped one he had gotten from Switzerland a while back, he decided to let the bottle be for now.
Not that one beer would have hurt, but he wasn't in the mood for any kind of food and drinks right now.
He lied back down, staring at the ceiling.

His break up with Poland had been a little more than a month ago.
He hadn't heard from him since, so those stupid few words were still what he saw whenever he scrolled down his contact list on WhatsApp.
He hoped he was doing alright, but at the same time he wished Poland was feeling as awful about this as he did.
God knows he deserved it after that.
Germany didn't even know why he was still torturing himself by looking at the texts, wishing he'd just stayed upset, like he was after first getting them.
He had been angry, hurt, resenting and almost hateful but after about two weeks of being pissed he went back to just being sad.
Which he found very rude, he was supposed to find acceptance after going through some of the grieving stages or something like that.

Of course the bottle opener didn't hold his attention for too long, so he picked up his phone again and opened the chat.
Like almost every night.
There they were, those stupid words.
After a few seconds Germany started typing.
"Hey, how are you"
No, that just seemd weird and unfit.
Delete.
"Did you fall in a ditch and die? I haven't seen you around anywhere."
That wasn't at all as funny as he hoped it would be, so this wouldn't be sufficient either.
Delete.
"I miss you"

...

Ha, right as if he would ever send that.
Delete.
Delete, delete, delete.
Like always.
He had just started typing out another message when the little "online" symbol popped up under Polands name.
Germany barely managed to catch his phone from hitting the metal built of his TV table when he shot up into a sitting position.
He barely moved then, just focused on the little letters.
Funny, it was pretty late at night.
Hopefully Poland hadn't seen that he was writing him.
Then again...
Who was he kidding.
They hadn't talked in a month, his contact was probably buried under at least ten others.
Probably didn't care either way.
Relaxing a little, Germany started erasing what he had started to write out last.

"Online" changed to "typing...".

He didn't even hear the dull thud when his phone hit the carpet.
He was going nuts.
That was it.
There was NO way that Poland was thinking about him at the same time.
And opened their chat. And started typing.
Nein, nein, nein. No way. Absolutely not.
He glanced over the edge of the sofa and was relieved to find the status back to online.
And then, right when he was about to relax, a block of text popped up on his screen.
He stared.
Then stared some more.
Germany pulled his legs up onto the sofa, without picking up his phone, heart thundering against his ribcage.
After almost six weeks of radio silence, Poland had written him.
He couldn't look.
Already, there was this stupid hint of hope that crawled up from the pits of his stomach.
Maybe their relationship, their friendship, wasn't completely lost.
Maybe Poland also opened their chat every now and then, trying to find the right words, anything to say to him.
Maybe-