Journey || Erik Durm

♀

CHARLOTTE: 

            BACK when I was in my first year of secondary school, we had done an experiment in Biology class about catalysts. We had to mix cow liver—the catalase—into hydrogen peroxide—the solution—to see if there would be discernible change.

And there had been.

The change had been inconceivably high in severity, and because of ignored safety precautions, the container confining my table's fatal acid had shattered into incalculable pieces, causing a fire due to an influx into our bunsen burners. The entire school—with the inclusion of myself—had to evacuate.

As I had tumbled down the cement stairs of my mediocre school, eager to escape my plight, I remember feeling genuine fear. 

And now, unsteadily sauntering through the damp Berlin streets, I realized that Erik—catalytic Erik—was the source of my distress, the driving force for the ignition of the sensation akin to the one I had felt that day.

If you were to belittle him and I into metaphorical objects, he would be the cow liver producing the reaction and I was the hydrogen peroxide, overflowing with anomalous emotions. Combined, the only thing the two of us caused was a hazardous reaction.

And the mere thought of it scared me senseless.

Because I had no idea what I felt for him.

I was straddling a dangerously thin line of flaming hatred and an emotion that exceeded all standards of it. Sometimes, I wanted nothing more than to drown him in the arrogant words he spewed out daily, and other times, that didn't seem enough. But was anything enough when it came to Erik Durm?

I groaned, releasing my anger by attacking the trunk of a nearby tree. As my legs came in contact with it, they hurt terribly and the passerby narrowed their eyes at me in disapproval and absolutely nothing was solved. Because even after, I was still thinking about Erik and our agonizingly meaningless kiss.

I had more important things to worry about, like finding Joachim.

I needed to stop thinking about Erik.

God damn it.

I was thinking about him in the process of telling myself not to think about him.

I just had to not think about how much I shouldn't be thinking about him and then I wouldn't be thinking about him anymore. And then everything would be okay. And then I wouldn't be wasting so much of my time on someone as insignificant as Erik Durm. And then—

I was doing it again.

I inwardly lamented, wondering what had become of my life when a familiar voice croaked, "Charlotte?" My eyes instinctively darted upward, journeying through the urban scenery for the source of the noise, and when my eyes landed on a pair of agonizingly familiar ones, I froze on my spot on the concrete, my eyes widening in astonishment. "Shit, Charlotte," the intruder went on, tracing his fingers through his brown curls. "What are you doing in Berlin?"

"Trevor," I deadpanned gingerly, staring into his eyes in greeting.

"You could be a little happier greeting me," he said, biting onto his lower lip.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I was already being nice enough."

"Lotte—"

"Don't call me that."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't know who you are," I grumbled, shoving past Trevor Cooper—the partner in my tragic high school love affair—to my destination: nowhere. Our seemingly impeccable relationship had plummeted on the final weeks of senior year, when a pretty girl by the name of Stacy Dugan had trapped Trev by her  fingers, swooping him away from me.