Second Chance by Michelle Resina

Second Chance

 

INTRODUCTION:

 

Thirty years old, but he looks fifteen.

A life shattered by a narcissistic mother, an absent father, a brother who no longer exists, years of addictions, vanished friends, and a trauma that leaves her breathless.

 

Chapter One

 

 

 

Her name was Lina Voss.

 

Thirty years on paper.

 

Fifteen in the mirror.

 

A cruel joke the universe had been playing on her since she was twelve, when her body stopped growing taller but continued to age everywhere except her face. It was as if time had decided to play a trick on her: it had stolen her true childhood, then left her with only the appearance of that childhood she had never lived. Huge eyes, long, fake-looking lashes, small, full lips, round cheeks that blushed at the slightest hint. Even her light brown hair, straight and shoulder-length, had that look of a girl who still doesn't know what an iron is. People looked at her twice in the street, first with tenderness, then with confusion when she opened her mouth and a tired woman emerged.

 

The apartment in Amsterdam-Noord was a hole-in-the-wall on the third floor of a gray 1970s building, with windows overlooking an internal courtyard filled with rusty bicycles and overflowing garbage cans. The smell of bleach was everywhere, permeating the walls, the yellowed awnings, the grout between the bathroom tiles. Her mother, Marit Voss, had made cleanliness a religious obsession. "Dirt attracts the devil," she always said, in that cutting voice that sounded like a kitchen knife running across glass. Every Saturday morning, at six o'clock sharp, the liturgy began: bucket, sponge, yellow gloves, Clorox diluted until her eyes watered. As a child, Lina would sit on the kitchen floor and watch her, her knees drawn up to her chest, convinced that if she stayed still enough, her mother wouldn't notice her little transgressions—a drawing scrawled on the wall, a chocolate stain on her shirt, a hair fallen into the sink.

 

But the mother always noticed everything.

 

"You're dirty inside, Lina. That's why you have to clean the outside."

 

Those words had stuck with her like an acid tattoo. She'd grown up thinking that bleach was love, that burning eyes were affection, that the silence after screams was peace.

 

Now, at thirty, Lina was fat.

 

There was no polite way to say it, and she wasn't looking for politeness. She weighed ninety-eight kilos, spread across her five-foot-five frame. Her arms hung limply when she raised them, her thighs rubbed together, making a dull, humiliating sound when she walked, her belly overflowed from the size 16 jeans she bought online because she was embarrassed to try them on in stores. The rolls piled up on her back like layers of poorly risen puff pastry. Yet her face... her face remained intact. A cruel trap. On the street, she still heard, "Hey, kid, shouldn't you be at school?" or "Honey, have you lost your mommy?" Each time, it was a punch in the gut. She hated those strangers with a dull rage, because they reminded her how wrong her existence was: trapped in the body of an obese teenager with a soul that had already seen too many winters.

 

His mother was the reason the friends left.

 

Marit Voss didn't tolerate strangers in her home. She'd look them up and down, commenting on their smell, their clothes, the way they spoke. "That girl looks like she's taking drugs," she'd say, pointing to a friend of Lina's who was sixteen. Or: "That boy will use you and throw you away, just like your father." After a while, her friends stopped coming. The messages became sparser. The group chats emptied. Lina had stopped inviting people over because she already knew how it would end: screaming, slamming doors, accusations of betrayal. "You're leaving me for them? After everything I've done for you?"

 

His father was the reason his older brother, Jens, no longer answered his phone.

 

Jens was eight years older than her. He was the one who taught her to tie her shoes, who hid her under the bed when her mother left for her seizures, who stole coins from her wallet to secretly buy her ice cream. But when Jens was eighteen and Lina was ten, their father disappeared. A suitcase, a note on the kitchen table: "I can't take it anymore." No letter for his children. Only silence. Jens had started working immediately, night shifts in a warehouse, then in a bar, then who knows where. Every now and then he secretly sent money to Lina, but he never spoke of his mother. One day, after yet another argument in which Marit had called him "a failure like your father," Jens had walked out the door and never returned. Lina had written to him for years. Texts, emails, even a letter sent to the last known address. No reply. Only blue ticks that never arrived.

 

Drugs were the reason she herself had stopped answering her phone.

 

It started at fifteen with weed and pills stolen from parties. Then speed to stay awake when her mother kept her awake with her tantrums. Then cocaine because it was the only thing that silenced the voice in her head. Then heroin because at a certain point nothing else was enough. Her true friends had long since disappeared; only the "suppliers" remained, the guys who came in and out without saying hello, who left little bags on the table and took her money without looking her in the eye. Her phone vibrated constantly—overdue notices, veiled threats, unknown numbers. Lina had stopped charging it. Better silence than more lies.

 

PTSD had a favorite song: her mother's voice saying "You're worthless without me" right before the slap. She played it on repeat every night at 3:14. Always that precise time, as if the trauma's internal clock had a fixed appointment. She woke up drenched in sweat, her heart pounding, her hands shaking. Sometimes she vomited in the sink. Sometimes she sat on the floor until dawn, staring at the wall, waiting for the day to come and save her. But the day never saved anyone.

 

On the night of her thirtieth birthday there were no candles, no cake, no wishes.

 

There was only her, on the cold bathroom floor, illuminated by the fluorescent light that had been flickering for three years. She was wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt with coffee stains and sweatpants that cinched her waist. In front of her, a half-empty, one-and-a-half-liter Clorox bottle. She'd already snorted her last dose of coke two hours earlier, sitting on the toilet with the broken mirror resting on her knees. She looked at her reflection in the shattered pieces and thought: Thirty years old. And I still look like a little girl who lost her way home.

 

He wanted it to be fast.

 

He wanted it to be loud.

 

He wanted the neighbors, for once, to do something other than turn up the music to drown out his screams at night.

 

He had written a note, folded on the sink. Just three lines:

 

It's nobody's fault.

 

Or maybe yes.

 

Goodbye.

 

It wasn't addressed to anyone in particular. There was no one who really cared.

 

He took the bottle in both hands. The thick, yellowish liquid was gently sloshing. The smell was familiar, almost comforting. Like home.

 

He drank.

 

The first sip burned her throat as if she'd swallowed broken glass dipped in acid. The second made her eyes water instantly. She tried to continue, but her body rebelled: violent retching, a cough that seemed to tear her lungs apart. She screamed. A wet, gurgling scream that turned into a rattle. She fell sideways, the bottle rolling away, spilling bleach across the floor. Her hands clawed at the tiles, searching for something to hold on to that wasn't there.

 

The world narrowed to a point: the burning, the metallic taste of blood mixed with chlorine, the cold rising from her legs. She thought of Jens, for a second. She thought of her mother finding his body and saying, "I told you you were weak." She thought of the kids at the school she'd never really been to, of the laughter she'd never shared.

 

Then the world went black.

 

Silence.

 

Only silence.

 

Continues...

 

Chapter 2 

The darkness did not last as long as expected.

 

It wasn't a final, peaceful darkness, like in the movies where people vanish in a gentle white glow. It was an intermittent darkness, punctuated by flashes of neon lights, distant electronic beeps, and voices speaking in Dutch too fast to understand. Lina slowly surfaced, like a body emerging from dirty, thick water.

 

First she felt the pain. Not just in her throat—though that was the worst part, a constant fire pulsing with every swallow—but everywhere: in her arms bound by needles and tubes, in her chest crushed by the weight of a respirator she no longer used but which had left bruises on her ribs, in her legs numb from hours (or days?) of immobility. Her throat was the center of everything. Every breath felt like sandpaper dipped in acid. She tried to cough and a strangled sound came out, a rattle that didn't sound human.

 

He opened his eyes.

 

The room was white, too white. White walls, white sheets, white curtains separating the bed from the rest of the ward. A monitor on the left beeped regularly, a green graph rising and falling like a lazy heartbeat. On the bedside table: a plastic cup of water, a bent straw, a remote control for the bed. No flowers, no notes, no evidence that anyone knew or cared.

 

A nurse entered almost immediately, a woman in her forties with hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and square glasses. She checked the monitors without looking her in the eye.

 

"Welcome back," he said in neutral Dutch. "Don't try to speak. Your vocal cords are damaged. Very damaged. The surgeon will come by later."

 

Lina nodded weakly. She tried to say "thank you," but it came out as a hoarse hiss, a high-pitched, childish sound that made her shiver. It sounded like a ten-year-old imitating a cartoon. The nurse smiled—a professional, empty smile—and added, "It's normal. The swelling will go down, but... there will be permanent changes. I'm sorry."

 

She didn't seem sorry. She seemed tired.

 

The next few days melted into a haze of morphine, checks, tubes being removed one by one. Lina counted the time between meals: clear broth in the morning, low-fat yogurt at noon, a tasteless puree in the evening. Every time she tried to speak, the nurses placed a finger on her lips and shook their heads. "Vocal rest," they said. As if silence were a cure.

 

On the third day, they allowed her to sit on the bed. They removed her catheter—a swift and clinical humiliation—and gave her a notebook and pen. Lina wrote down the first thing that came to mind:

 

How long was I gone?

 

The nurse read and replied: "Four days. You were in a coma. Your kidneys miraculously held up. The chlorine corroded your esophagus and vocal cords. You were lucky."

 

Luck. The word made her laugh, but only on the inside. A shrill sound came out, like a broken whistle.

 

On the fourth day, the surgeon arrived. A tall, bald man with enormous hands that seemed designed to open chests, not repair throats. He spoke while looking at the reports, not at her.

 

"The vocal cords have extensive scarring. The mucosa is necrotic in several places. We've removed the dead tissue, but regeneration will be limited. The voice will remain… altered. Higher, weaker. Probably with a permanent… pre-adolescent timbre. I'm sorry."

 

Lina wrote on the notepad, trembling letters:

 

Can I speak normally one day?

 

He shook his head. "No. Not like before. You'll be able to communicate, but it won't be your voice. Not anymore."

 

She stared at the paper for a full minute, then wrote one last line:

 

Thank you for your honesty.

 

The surgeon nodded, a little surprised, and left.

 

She didn't sleep that night. She sat with her back against the pillows, the lights in the ward dimmed, the monitor beeping like a sick lullaby. She thought about the bottle of Clorox, the taste, the burning sensation. She thought about how foolish it had been to believe she would end there, in silence and peace. Instead, she was alive. Alive with a child's voice, a body that weighed like a boulder, a life she no longer wanted.

 

On the fifth day, they allowed her to have a TV. A small screen mounted on the wall, a sticky remote control. She flipped through channels at random: news about floods in Germany, detergent commercials (ironic), a movie on a commercial channel.

 

It was 13 Going on 30. The dubbed Dutch version, with Jennifer Garner laughing too loudly and dancing in the office. Lina watched it with the volume turned down at first, then turned it up a bit. The story was ridiculous: a thirteen-year-old girl makes a wish and wakes up thirty, with a perfect life she has no memory of building. Eventually, she realizes she's lost the best part of herself and goes back.

 

Lina stared at the screen until tears streamed down her cheeks. Not because of the story—it was corny, predictable—but because of the contrast. She was the exact opposite. She'd turned thirty in a flash of pain and realized she'd never had the fifteen years that mattered: the laughter with friends, the awkward first kisses, the evenings chatting until dawn, the foolish things with no consequences. She'd only known screams, slaps, drugs, loneliness.

 

When the movie ended, he pressed the call button. The same nurse from before arrived.

 

Lina wrote on the notepad, with slow, decisive letters:

 

I need a real pen and a notebook. Not this piece of paper.

 

The nurse hesitated, then nodded. She returned with a cheap spiral notebook and a black pen.

 

Lina opened the first page and wrote a single sentence, pressing hard on the paper until it almost tore:

 

I want to steal back the childhood I never had.

 

He closed the notebook. He held it to his chest like a secret.

 

On the sixth day his mother came.

 

Marit Voss entered without knocking, her high heels clicking on the linoleum. She wore an impeccable beige coat, dark red lipstick, and dyed blonde hair pulled back into a perfect bun. She looked like she'd stepped out of an expensive furniture catalog, not a hospitalized daughter.

 

He stopped at the foot of the bed, arms crossed.

 

"So," he said, his voice flat. "You did it again. Always making a fuss."

 

Lina looked at her. She didn't write anything. There was no need.

 

Marit continued, as if it were a normal conversation: "The neighbors called me. They said they heard screams. I thought you were high again. But no, you decided to drink bleach. Congratulations. Do you have any idea how much a private ambulance costs? And insurance doesn't cover attempted suicides."

 

Silence.

 

Marit sighed dramatically. "You know, Lina, one day you'll understand that all this is your fault. I gave you everything. A clean house, food, a roof. And you? You threw yourself away. Like your father. Like your brother."

 

Lina felt something break inside her, but it wasn't pain. It was pure, cold anger.

 

He took the notebook, wrote two words and turned it towards his mother:

 

Go away.

 

Marit read. She laughed—a short, dry laugh. "Oh, are you acting tough now? What's with that little mouse voice you have?" She approached, leaning over the bed. "Just know that I won't help you anymore. Not a penny, not a phone call. You're alone, Lina. As you deserve."

 

Then she turned and walked out, heels clicking away down the corridor.

 

Lina remained still for hours. She didn't cry. She didn't scream (she couldn't). She just stared at the ceiling and mentally repeated the phrase from the notebook.

 

I want to steal back the childhood I never had.

 

On the seventh day they discharged her.

 

They gave her a bag of pain medication, an appointment with a speech therapist, and a sheet of paper with instructions: “Voice rest for at least four weeks. Stay hydrated. No smoking, alcohol, or spicy foods.”

 

She left the hospital wearing the clothes she had on when she arrived – a stained sweatshirt, sweatpants – and a plastic bag with her few personal belongings.

 

He walked slowly toward home, under a gray late-September sky. His throat burned with every breath, his voice a hoarse whisper if he tried to use it.

 

But inside, for the first time in years, he felt something other than despair.

 

He heard a plan.

 

A crazy, dangerous, impossible plan.

 

But it was his.

 

Continues...

 

Chapter 3 

 

The movie had ended a few minutes earlier, but Lina hadn't turned off the screen. She remained there, sitting on the bed with her back against the propped-up pillows, her disposable headphones still in her ears, the remote abandoned on the sheets. The commercial channel logo played on a silent loop, but she could no longer see it. Inside her head, the movie continued to play, but in reverse, like a badly rewound tape.

 

Jennifer Garner dancing carefree in the office. Jennifer Garner realizing she'd lost her best friend. Jennifer Garner going back and choosing to be different.

 

Lina felt her chest tighten into a knot that wasn't just the residual pain in her throat. It was something else. Something burning lower down, in her stomach, as if the bleach hadn't just corroded it physically, but had also left an acidic trail in her thoughts.

 

He removed his headphones. The monitor's beeping filled the room again, regular, indifferent. He picked up his spiral notebook and opened it to the page with the sentence he'd written the day before.

 

I want to steal back the childhood I never had.

 

He read it three times, slowly. Then, with the black pen shaking slightly, he added underneath:

 

There's no going back. There's no magic. But there's now. And I'm still here.

 

She closed her eyes. She breathed slowly through her nose, despite the burning sensation that rose from her windpipe every time she inhaled too deeply. She thought about the movie. She thought about how ridiculous it was. She thought about how cruel it was.

 

Because in the movie, the girl had lost something precious, but at least she'd had it, once upon a time. She'd had a real thirteen-year-old: birthdays with homemade cakes, sleepovers with friends laughing until they cried, awkward first kisses in a corner of the schoolyard, silly fights over childish jealousies, evenings spent chatting on the phone until the battery died. She'd had a childhood to regret.

 

Lina had nothing to regret because she had had nothing.

 

Her thirteenth birthday had been Marit waking her up at five in the morning screaming that the bathroom wasn't clean enough. Her fourteenth birthday had been Jens coming home at three in the morning smelling of beer and cigarettes, kissing her on the forehead, and disappearing back into her room without a word. Her fifteenth birthday had been the first bag of weed passed by an older boy in the park behind the school, the first "it makes you feel light," the first vomiting in the toilet after too much. Her sixteenth birthday had been the first time she lied to her mother, telling her "I'm going to study at Sophie's," when in fact she was getting on a tram to a squalid apartment to snort lines on a dirty glass table.

 

She hadn't had carefree laughter. She hadn't had innocent secrets to share with friends. She hadn't had normal first times.

 

He had only had dirty, fast, painful first times.

 

She opened her eyes again. The monitor read 11:47 PM. The ward was silent, except for the distant hum of a cart passing in the corridor. Lina picked up her pen and began writing without pausing, letting the words flow like a raging river, disordered and angry.

 

I don't want to be Jennifer Garner. I don't want a perfect life I don't remember. I want a life I remember living. I want to feel like a fifteen-year-old for real, even though I'm thirty. I want to laugh for no reason. I want to have friends who send me stupid texts at 2 a.m. I want to feel stupid and free, not stupid and broken. I want a body that doesn't betray me every time I look in the mirror. I want a voice that doesn't make me feel ashamed when I speak. I want…

 

She stopped. Her hand was shaking. The pen left an ink stain on the paper.

 

I want to no longer feel guilty for existing.

 

She snapped the notebook shut. She hugged it to her chest as if it could protect her from herself.

 

That night she didn't really sleep. She dozed intermittently, waking up every time the burning in her throat increased or a nightmare brought her back to the bathroom floor with the bottle in her hand. But between awakenings, her thoughts continued to circle, always on the same axis.

 

The movie lied. Magic doesn't exist. Second chances don't come handed to you on a silver platter with a wish made with your eyes closed.

 

Second chances are built. With dirty hands, a broken body, a child's voice that no one takes seriously.

 

The next morning – it was the eleventh day of hospitalization – the morning nurse came in with the breakfast trolley: lukewarm tea, low-fat plain yogurt, a small, firm apple.

 

“How’s your voice today?” he asked in that gentle tone they use when they don’t know what else to say.

 

Lina tried. She opened her mouth.

 

"Well."

 

A high, soft, almost singsong sound came out. Like a little girl reading a storybook aloud.

 

The nurse smiled. "She's getting better. You look like a little princess."

 

Lina didn't answer. She took the notebook and wrote:

 

Can I keep the TV on all day?

 

The nurse raised an eyebrow. "You shouldn't strain your voice too much, but you can watch. Just don't turn it up too loud."

 

Lina nodded. When the nurse left, she turned on the same channel again. Not because she wanted to watch the movie again—she'd already watched it three times that night, on a mental loop—but because she wanted to see what came next. Commercials. Morning shows with people laughing in bright studios. News. All normal. All strange.

 

Around noon, the speech therapist arrived. The same woman with short gray hair and a calm voice.

 

“Let’s try full sentences today.”

 

Lina nodded.

 

«Say “My name is Lina”.»

 

“My… name… Li-na.”

 

Every syllable was a small effort. Her voice came out high-pitched, fragile, but clearer than the day before.

 

The speech therapist nodded. "Good. Now for something longer: 'I want to change my life.'"

 

Lina looked into her eyes for a second. Then she inhaled.

 

“I want to… change… my… life.”

 

The words came out slowly, broken, but whole. The speech therapist actually smiled this time.

 

"Excellent. You have strength. Use it."

 

When she was alone, Lina took the notebook and wrote a new list, more concrete than the previous one.

 

Get out of here alive.

Don't touch anything that hurts me anymore (drugs, alcohol, bleach, mother).

Move. Walk. Run? Maybe someday. Gym.

Eat like a normal person, not like an animal that stuffs itself so it doesn't feel.

Voice: Exercise every day. Make it mine, even if it's weird.

Finding a purpose. Anything. A class? A job? Something to keep me busy.

Looking at the kids out the school window and asking myself, “Why not me?”

Decide if the answer is “why not.”

He underlined the last line twice.

 

He closed the notebook.

 

On the twelfth day, she walked down the corridor again, this time without a walker. Her legs were still shaking, but they held up. She passed the window at the end of the ward: she could see a stretch of road, cars passing by, people walking quickly in the light rain. Among them, two teenagers with backpacks were laughing about something on their phones. Lina stopped to watch them until they disappeared around the corner.

 

He returned to his room. He sat on the bed. He picked up his notebook.

 

He added just one line, at the bottom of the list:

 

What if I could re-enter that world?

 

He didn't write anything else. It wasn't necessary. The question was already there, enormous, absurd, dangerous.

 

But for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid.

 

It made her want to get up. 

 

Continues...

 

Chapter Four:

 

Her discharge arrived with the same bureaucratic coldness she'd felt when she entered: a nurse handed her a clear plastic bag containing printed notes, prescriptions, a speech therapy appointment in two weeks, and a sheet of "post-discharge instructions" written in small, impersonal print. They gave her back the clothes she'd been wearing when the ambulance picked her up: an oversized gray sweatshirt with coffee stains on the chest, black sweatpants that cinched her waist, and socks with holes in one heel. No purse, no wallet (she'd left it at home), no phone (it had been dead for days).

 

She signed the discharge form with a shaking hand. The pen left a jagged mark on the "Patient's signature" line. Lina Voss. Thirty years old. Survivor.

 

He left the hospital under a leaden-gray late-September sky. The air was humid, smelling of recent rain and rotting leaves piled in drains. He walked slowly toward the tram stop for tram 26, each step a small calculation: left leg, right leg, don't trip, don't fall. His body weighed. Ninety-eight kilos that felt double after twelve days of broth and yogurt. His throat still burned with every cold breath, but the pain had become a constant, almost familiar undercurrent.

 

He boarded the tram. He sat at the back, near the fogged-up window. He watched Amsterdam pass by: hooded cyclists, tourists with maps in hand, shops with signs in Dutch and English. All normal. All strange.

 

She got off at Noorderpark, two blocks from her apartment. She walked slowly, counting her steps so as not to think too much. When she reached the front door, she reached into her sweatshirt pocket: she found the key attached to a plastic bunny keychain, a gift from Jens when she was eight. She opened the door. She climbed the stairs. Third floor. The smell of bleach hit her like a punch in the stomach.

 

Within.

 

The apartment was exactly as he'd left it: a Clorox bottle spilled on the bathroom floor (now dry, a pale, corrosive stain on the tiles), a broken mirror on the sink, a folded note next to the faucet. He picked it up. He read it again.

 

It's no one's fault. Or maybe it is. Goodbye.

 

He crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. Then he looked at himself in the mirror—at least what was still intact.

 

A fifteen-year-old's face: round cheeks, large eyes, small lips. A broken woman's body: overflowing belly, flabby arms, chafing thighs. A cartoon voice.

 

He whispered, “Enough.”

 

She went out again, without changing. She walked straight to the nearest gym, the cheap one at the end of the street, with the half-lit neon sign: "Fit4All – 24/7." She went in.

 

The smell hit her: old sweat, burnt treadmill rubber, cheap disinfectant. At the reception desk, a girl with a nose ring and purple hair looked up from her phone.

 

"Hello. Signing up?"

 

Lina nodded. She tried to speak.

 

"Yes. A year."

 

The voice came out high, soft, almost sweet. The girl looked at it in surprise, then smiled.

 

"Okay, honey. Fill out this form. Will you pay by cash or card?"

 

Lina pulled a wad of crumpled bills from her sweatshirt's inside pocket—the last money she'd withdrawn before the "big day." One hundred and fifty euros. She'd paid for the entire year in advance. The girl didn't ask any questions.

 

He gave her a key card and a locker.

 

Lina entered the locker room. She took off her sweatshirt. She looked at herself naked in the full-length mirror—for the first time in months, without looking away.

 

Fat. Ugly. Tired.

 

But long live.

 

He put on an old T-shirt and shorts he found in his locker (too tight, but never mind). He went out to the weight room.

 

She started on the treadmill. Speed ​​4 km/h. Slow walk. After two minutes her legs were shaking. After five, she was out of breath. After eight, she stopped, bent double, hands on her knees, sweat running into her eyes.

 

A woman in her sixties, with white hair tied back, passed her and said softly, "Slowly, slowly. The first day is always like this. Tomorrow will be a little better."

 

Lina nodded. She didn't answer. But those words stayed with her.

 

He returned home that evening exhausted. He took a cold shower because the hot water wasn't working. He fell into bed without eating dinner. He slept for twelve hours straight, his deepest sleep in years.

 

The next day it started again.

 

Gym at 7 a.m. Treadmill. Walking. Then stationary bike. Then light weights—2-kg dumbbells that felt like boulders. Every exercise was a battle: my body protested, my muscles screamed, my heart pounded. But it ended. Every time, it ended.

 

He came home. He cooked. Not frozen junk food or chips. Vegetables bought at the market: broccoli, zucchini, carrots. Boiled chicken. Brown rice. He ate slowly, chewing each bite as if it were a meditation.

 

He threw out all the junk food: half-eaten cookie packets, tubs of melted ice cream from the freezer, open bags of chips. He filled three black bags. He took them down to the bins.

 

He blocked all the provider numbers on his new phone (he'd bought a cheap one at the supermarket). He deleted group chats that had been dead for years.

 

She began voice exercises. Every morning and evening, in front of the mirror: "ahhh," "eeee," "iiii," ascending and descending scales. The speech therapist had given her a sheet of exercises. She did them religiously. Her voice remained high-pitched and soft, but it became more controlled. Less trembling. More hers.

 

A week after joining the gym, he weighed 215 pounds. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

 

On the fifteenth day after her discharge, she found a life coaching course online. Cheap, online, plus a few face-to-face classes in Amsterdam, in Dutch. It lasted six months. Recognized certification. She didn't want to coach others—not yet, maybe ever. She wanted structure. Homework. Deadlines. Something that would force her to finish what she started.

 

She signed up. She paid with a credit card (she had a low limit, but it was sufficient). She started her first class that same evening: an introductory video on "self-awareness" and "SMART goals."

 

He laughed softly—a strange, high-pitched, almost childish sound—as he read the slide: “Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, Time-bound.”

 

He wrote in the notebook:

 

Goal 1: Lose 20 kg in 12 months. Goal 2: Have a stable and usable voice within 6 months. Goal 3: Complete the life coach course. Goal 4: … (to be determined)

 

Below, in small letters:

 

Hidden goal: To take back the fifteen years I didn't have.

 

Every morning she looked at herself in the mirror and repeated, in that soft voice that now belonged to her:

 

"First out. Then in. Then the rest of the world."

 

He repeated the phrase like a mantra while running on the treadmill, while lifting weights, while cooking, while doing vocal exercises.

 

My body was slowly changing. My weight dropped in drops: 95, 94, 93.5. My arms lost some of their softness. My thighs rubbed less. My breathing improved.

 

But the mind changed faster.

 

One evening, exactly two months after his resignation, he went out for a walk instead of going to the gym. He passed his old high school in Oost. The red brick building, the windows lit by the sunset, the courtyard filled with students coming out of afternoon classes.

 

He stopped on the sidewalk.

 

He looked at them.

 

Girls with colorful backpacks laughing loudly, pushing each other, swapping earphones. Boys playing improvised soccer with a plastic bottle. A couple kissing against the wall, oblivious to everything.

 

Lina felt something break inside her—not pain, not anger. Hunger. Pure, ferocious hunger.

 

I want it. I need it. I've never had it.

 

He stayed there until the courtyard emptied and the school lights went out.

 

Then he smiled – a small, crooked, dangerous smile.

 

He whispered in his high, soft voice:

 

"Why the fuck not?"

 

He walked home quickly. He opened his computer. He looked up the Dutch Ministry of Education website. He found the form for late secondary school enrollment—VWO, Year 3.

 

Before filling out anything, he stopped.

 

If she really wanted to get in, she couldn't introduce herself as Lina Voss. Too risky. Too recognizable. Her mother could find out in a second, an older teacher might remember her, someone could put two and two together. And then there was the issue of documents: to register as a minor who had moved away, you needed an identity card, birth certificate, and address. Lina Voss could no longer exist in that context.

 

It had to disappear. And be reborn.

 

He knew where to get fake IDs—in his old circles, the ones he'd frequented years before, there were still contacts who did that kind of work for little money and no questions asked. It wasn't clean, it wasn't legal, but after drinking bleach, legality seemed like a luxury he could no longer afford.

 

He closed the ministry form.

 

Instead, he opened an encrypted messaging app he hadn't used in years. He wrote a short message to an old handle he hadn't used in a while.

 

“I need a new identity. Female, 15 years old. Dutch. Complete documents. How much?”

 

The answer came after twenty minutes.

 

“1200 euros. Name of your choice. Recent photo. 10 days.”

 

Lina answered immediately.

 

“Okay. Name: Femke De Jong. I'll send you the photo tomorrow.”

 

Closed the app.

 

He returned to the ministry website.

 

He began filling out the form, but this time with the information he would soon have.

 

Name: Femke De Jong Age: 15 Reason for moving: Change of residence from another province.

 

He didn't think about the consequences. He didn't think about the risks.

 

He just thought: I've already hit rock bottom. What worse can they do to me?

 

He hit “Submit” with the temporary name, knowing he would update everything once he had the documents.

 

He closed the laptop.

 

He lay down on the bed, hands behind his head.

 

For the first time in thirty years, he fell asleep with a smile.

 

From that moment on, Lina Voss was dead.

 

Femke De Jong was about to be born.

 

Continues..

 

Chapter Five

 

Ten days after the encrypted message, a brown envelope with no return address arrived in the ground-floor mailbox. No stamp, no sender's name. Just the handwritten address in black marker: "Femke De Jong – for collection."

 

Femke ran down the stairs, her heart pounding. She grabbed the envelope with trembling hands and ran back up to her apartment. She triple-locked the door, even though no one would follow her.

 

Inside were:

 

A laminated Dutch identity card, with a recent photo (taken with a new phone, neutral white background, serious teenage expression). A birth certificate printed on watermarked paper, dated 2011 (so just turned 15). A temporary residence certificate, with a fictitious address in Utrecht (a shared apartment "registered" in fake databases). A brand-new BSN number. A temporary health insurance card.

 

Everything perfect. Everything illegal. Everything necessary.

 

The photo showed a girl with dark brown curly hair, long to her butt, bouncy and wild, as if it had never seen a straightener or a tight elastic band. Deep, almost liquid-like black eyes seemed to absorb the light. Her cheeks were still slightly round, but less puffy than two months earlier: the daily gym workouts and strict diet were already taking their toll. She weighed 89 kilos that day. She wasn't thin, not yet, but her body was responding: her arms felt lighter, her belly retracted when she contracted, her thighs rubbing together less loudly.

 

She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror for half an hour. She repeated the name aloud, in her soft, high-pitched voice:

 

«Femke De Jong. Femke De Jong. Hi, I'm Femke.»

 

It sounded strange, but true. Lina Voss had been left on the bathroom floor with the Clorox bottle. Femke De Jong had been born from that corrosive pool.

 

The next day, she filled out the late registration form for VWO, Year 1 (the brugjaar, the transition/bridging year where the final path is decided). She attached scans of the fake documents. Reason: "Move from Utrecht for family reasons – start of this year." No further details. They weren't needed.

 

The response arrived via email after four working days.

 

Subject: Acceptance of late registration – VWO Year 1 – Scholengemeenschap Oost

 

Dear Femke De Jong,

 

Your late enrollment request has been exceptionally accepted for the current school year. We look forward to seeing you on Monday, October 14th at 8:15 a.m. in the school office for the final submission of original documents, the signing of the attendance contract, and the class assignment (1V4, provisional profile: Nature & Tech).

 

Since you are a minor and do not have immediate family members living in the Amsterdam area, you are required to provide a guarantor/legal representative for administrative matters, medical emergencies, and school communications. The guarantor must be an adult resident in the Netherlands, with a valid ID, and must appear in person on the day of registration to sign the authorization.

 

Kind regards, Scholengemeenschap Oost Secretariat Office

 

Femke read the email three times. The knot in her stomach tightened.

 

A guarantor.

 

She couldn't ask anyone about her old life. But she couldn't show up alone: ​​the school would have activated protocols for unaccompanied minors, and the false documents would have collapsed.

 

She thought for hours. She paced the apartment, her curly hair swaying behind her back like a heavy ponytail. Finally, she decided to focus on a specific person.

 

She went to the gym the next morning, like every other day. By 7:15, she was already on the treadmill, at 4 mph, sweat dripping down her back under her sweatshirt. For weeks, the same woman had been beside her: short white hair, about sixty-five years old, the lean body of a former cyclist or runner, wearing a simple black tracksuit. Her name was Els. They greeted each other with a nod and, occasionally, exchanged a few words about the weather or the weight to be lifted.

 

That day, after the session, Femke approached as they were drying their faces.

 

«Els... can I ask you something a little strange?»

 

Els raised an eyebrow, took a sip from the canteen.

 

“Tell me, little one.”

 

Femke inhaled. Her voice came out soft, high, but firm.

 

"I need to enroll in school. VWO, Year 1. But I don't have... family here in Amsterdam. I need an adult guarantor to sign a power of attorney. Just for the office: signature, ID, and that's it. No money, no real obligations. Just... help me get started."

 

Els looked at her for a long time. She didn't ask why a "fifteen-year-old" lived alone, she didn't ask about her family, she didn't ask about anything uncomfortable. Just:

 

"When?"

 

"Next Monday. At 8:15."

 

Els nodded slowly.

 

"Okay. I'll be there. Text me the school address. And bring some decent coffee; the coffee from the vending machine sucks."

 

Femke smiled – a real smile, small but real.

 

"Thank you."

 

Els shrugged.

 

"Don't thank me. I raised three kids alone. I know what it's like to have to fend for yourself. And besides... I need you to keep me company while I jog without getting bored."

 

He didn't add anything else. It wasn't necessary.

 

Monday, October 14, 8:10 a.m.

 

Femke arrived in front of the school with her new backpack (a simple black one from H&M), baggy jeans, an oversized gray sweatshirt, and curly hair pulled back in a high ponytail that still reached her mid-back. Her dark eyes were highlighted by a light layer of cheap kohl. She weighed 87 kilos that morning: two months of daily gym work-out and a strict diet (precisely 1,800 calories a day, weighed to the gram: high protein, plenty of vegetables, limited carbohydrates, no added sugars, no fried foods, no exceptions).

 

Els was already there, leaning against the wall, wearing a black wool coat and a red scarf. She took the coffee Femke handed her.

 

"Let's go then, fifteen year old."

 

We smiled, they entered the office together.

 

The secretary, a woman in her forties with red glasses, checked the original documents (the fake ones, but perfect). She looked at Femke, then Els.

 

"Are you the guarantor?"

 

Els nodded.

 

"Elizabeth Van der Meer. Here's my ID and signed power of attorney."

 

He signed where necessary. No awkward questions. Just forms, signatures, and a temporary school card printed on the spot.

 

"Class 1V4. Year 1 VWO. Office hours tomorrow morning. Welcome, Femke."

 

They went out.

 

Els patted Femke lightly on the shoulder.

 

"Good luck, little one. And don't skip your workouts, okay? I'll see you tomorrow at 6:45. Let's run together."

 

Femke nodded, her throat tight.

 

“Thank you, Els. Really.”

 

Els just smiled.

 

"Don't thank me. Just... do something good with this second chance."

 

He smiled at me, then turned and walked away, without looking back.

 

Femke stood alone in front of the school entrance.

 

He looked out at the courtyard: kids coming in laughing, backpacks banging, earphones, chatter, real life.

 

He took a deep breath.

 

He whispered in his soft voice:

 

"Femke De Jong. First year VWO. Let's get started."

 

Within.

 

Continues...

 

Chapter 6 

 

Femke woke up at 5:45 a.m., before her alarm clock went off. The room was still dark, only a sliver of orange light from the streetlights filtering through the thin curtains. She rose slowly, her bare feet on the cold floor. She weighed 185 pounds that morning—marked on the digital scale she'd purchased from Action two weeks earlier. Her diet was unforgiving: exactly 1,750 calories the previous day, counted to the gram with the MyFitnessPal app. Protein 140 grams, carbs 120 grams net, fat 60 grams. No exceptions.

 

She took a quick, cold shower to wake her body. She dried her curly hair with an old towel, leaving it loose all the way to her bottom—a dark brown tangle that bothered her when she moved, but she didn't want to cut it. It was the only thing she still felt was "hers," untouched, undamaged.

 

She got dressed: black skinny jeans (size 10, which was loose around her waist), an oversized gray hoodie, and clean white sneakers. A simple black backpack. Her black eyes were made up only with a light layer of dark brown kohl. She looked in the mirror.

 

She looked like a fifteen-year-old. A tired fifteen-year-old, a little too serious, but fifteen.

 

He left home at 7:20. Tram 26 was half empty. He sat by the window, headphones in his ears but no music—just so he wouldn't have to talk to anyone. He watched Amsterdam awaken: cyclists wearing scarves, shops raising their shutters, a light fog on the canal.

 

She arrived at Scholengemeenschap Oost at 7:55. The courtyard was already crowded. Young people were laughing, pushing each other, secretly exchanging vapes. Femke stood near the gate for a minute, breathing softly.

 

Then he entered.

 

Class 1V4 was on the first floor, room 112. She was the last to enter. The Dutch teacher, a woman in her forties with round glasses and short gray hair, was already taking the roll call.

 

«De Jong, Femke?»

 

"Present."

 

The voice came out soft, high-pitched, almost sweet. A few heads turned. Femke sat down at the last desk near the window, backpack at her feet.

 

He looked around.

 

Four blond boys with blue eyes occupied the central benches, as if they were a natural group.

 

Helena Van Dijk: straight shoulder-length blonde hair, perfect bangs, easy smile. She looked like the classic girl who organizes everything.

 

Willem Bakker: tall for his age, with short, slightly messy blond hair, a square jaw, and the look of a boy who plays football after school.

 

Alette Van den Bos: smaller, with wavy blonde hair tied in a low ponytail, freckles on her nose, she was the first to laugh at every joke.

 

Then the Müller twins.

 

Jürgen and Helga. Germans, relocated from Munich a year ago. Very light blonde, almost platinum, ice-blue eyes, pale skin. Jürgen had slightly longer hair, Helga wore it loose with a black headband. They spoke Dutch with a soft accent, a German that showed through on the "r"s and vowels.

 

Jürgen turned first. He looked her straight in the black eyes.

 

“New?” he asked softly, in Dutch.

 

Femke nodded.

 

«Femke.»

 

"Jürgen. And this is Helga." He jerked his thumb toward his sister. Helga smiled shyly, a smile identical to his own but softer.

 

Femke nodded back. She didn't say anything else.

 

The lesson began. Dutch: analysis of a short text on "identity and belonging." Ironic. Femke listened, taking notes in precise handwriting. She didn't raise her hand. She didn't want to be noticed too soon.

 

At recess, he went out into the courtyard. He leaned against the wall, backpack between his legs, and watched the boys play improvised soccer with a plastic bottle.

 

Helena approached with Alette.

 

"Hi. You're the new one, right? Femke?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Where do you come from?"

 

“Utrecht.” The lie came out easily.

 

"Cool. I'm Helena. This is Alette. These are Willem, Jürgen, and Helga." She pointed to the group gathered near the fountain.

 

Willem raised a hand in greeting. Jürgen smiled again, more broadly this time. Helga gave a small nod.

 

Femke nodded to everyone.

 

"Welcome," Helena said. "If you need anything, just ask."

 

"Thank you."

 

He didn't add anything else. The group moved toward the makeshift camp. Femke remained there, watching.

 

After school, at 3:10 pm, she went straight to the gym.

 

Els was already there, on the treadmill.

 

"How did the first day go?"

 

Femke got into the next car.

 

"Weird. But… okay."

 

Els nodded.

 

"Do you need anything? Money for books? School supplies?"

 

Femke hesitated.

 

"I have… little. The rent is paid until the end of the month, but after that..."

 

Els stopped the treadmill. He looked at her seriously.

 

"Listen, Femke. I'm not giving you charity. I raised three children. I know how much it costs to stand on your own two feet at that age. I'll pay your rent for the next few months. And your schoolbooks. And the gym—we go together anyway. In exchange, you come running with me every morning and never miss a workout. Deal?"

 

Femke felt her eyes sting. She didn't cry—she hadn't cried in years—but she nodded firmly.

 

“Deal.”

 

Els patted her on the shoulder.

 

"Good. Now run. You've lost almost five pounds in a week. Keep it up."

 

Femke ran. She sweated. She thought of her blond companions, their blue eyes, their easy laughter.

 

He thought that maybe, one day, he could be part of that world.

 

But not as someone's girlfriend. Not like Helena with Jürgen (you could already tell they were looking at each other too much). Not like Helga with Willem (same thing, shy glances).

 

She didn't care.

 

She was interested in true affection. The kind without hands on, without stolen kisses, without drama.

 

She was interested in someone who would just say, “Come run.”

 

Like Els.

 

He returned home at 6:30 p.m. He cooked grilled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and 100g of basmati rice, weighed raw.

 

He ate in silence.

 

Then he opened the notebook.

 

He wrote:

 

Day 1 – VWO Year 1. Classmates: Helena, Willem, Alette, Jürgen, Helga. All nice. Blonde. Blue eyes. Me: curly hair, black eyes. Different. But that's okay. Els pays for rent and gym fees. I don't know why, but I trust her.

 

He closed the notebook.

 

Yes he lay down on the bed.

 

He whispered in the dark, with his soft voice:

 

"Femke De Jong. Day one. It's not over."

 

Continues...

 

Chapter Seven

 

The second day of school began with rain. A fine, persistent rain, typical of October in Amsterdam, which soaks without soaking, but leaves everything gray and sticky. Femke left the house at 6:30, backpack on her shoulders, hood up. Her curly hair, still damp from the shower, had already swelled into a wild halo that reached almost to her butt. She didn't tie it up: she liked the feeling of it weighing on her back, a reminder that her body was changing but not everything was under control.

 

At the gym, he found Els already on the treadmill, at 8 km/h, headphones in. When he saw Femke, he slowed down.

 

"Good morning, little one. Ready for your second dose of math?"

 

Femke got into the next car and set it to 6.8 km/h.

 

«Ready for anything, I think.»

 

They drove in silence for twenty minutes. Then Els turned off the car.

 

"You ate?"

 

Femke nodded. "Boiled eggs and spinach. 320 calories."

 

"Good. I'll send you the grocery list tonight. No junk. I'll pay for the supermarket for the month, okay? But you only buy what I write."

 

Femke looked at her. She wanted to say something, but the words stuck in her throat. Finally she just whispered:

 

"Thank you."

 

Els gave her a light push on the shoulder.

 

"Don't thank me every time. Save your breath for running."

 

At 8:10, Femke entered classroom 1V4. Rain was pouring against the windows. The math teacher, a tall, thin woman in a cable-knit sweater, was already writing equations on the board.

 

Femke sat down in her spot by the window. She looked out: the empty courtyard, puddles reflecting the gray sky.

 

Helena turned from the front desk.

 

"Have you done your Dutch homework?"

 

Femke nodded.

 

«I made them last night.»

 

"Great. If you want, I'll check them for you later. I'm terrible with conjunctions."

 

Femke smiled softly. "Okay."

 

During math class, Jürgen turned around twice. Once to hand her an eraser she hadn't asked for. The second time just to glance at her, a quick, curious glance. Femke pretended not to notice and continued writing formulas.

 

At halftime the group gathered in the covered corridor, near the lockers.

 

Willem was telling a story about a weekend soccer practice: "...and then the coach made me run twenty laps around the pitch because I missed a pass. Twenty! I died."

 

Alette laughed. "You're always dead after two laps."

 

Helga, sitting cross-legged on a bench, added softly: "Back in Munich, the coach was worse. He made us run in the snow."

 

Jürgen nodded. "Yeah, and then he yelled at us in German. He's nicer here."

 

Helena looked at Femke. "And you? Are you playing something?"

 

Femke shook her head. "No. I just... run. At the gym."

 

"Cool," said Willem. "I hate running. I prefer football."

 

Jürgen smiled at Femke. "I run a little. Maybe someday we'll come with you."

 

Femke nodded, but inside she thought: No. Not yet. I don't want anyone watching me sweat and pant.

 

The bell rang. They returned to class.

 

English class. The teacher had her read aloud a passage about "friendship and belonging." Femke read when it was her turn. Her voice came out soft, high-pitched, almost singsong. A few classmates turned around. Alette whispered, "You have a nice voice. You sound like a singer."

 

Femke blushed slightly. She didn't answer.

 

After school, she went straight home. She cooked grilled turkey, baked zucchini, and quinoa. She weighed everything. She ate in silence, checking her phone: a message from Els.

 

“Grocery list: chicken, eggs, mixed vegetables, oats, 0% Greek yogurt, unsalted almonds. Budget: €80. I'll send you the money on Tikkie tonight.”

 

Femke replied: “Thank you. I'll reimburse you tomorrow with whatever money I find.”

 

Immediate response: “You won't get any refunds. Eat well and study. Period.”

 

Femke put the phone down. She felt a strange warmth in her chest. It wasn't love, it wasn't classic friendship. It was... security. Someone who cared without asking for anything in return.

 

That evening he opened the notebook.

 

Day 2 – VWO

 

Homework done. Math okay. English: I read aloud. Everyone looks at me when I speak. My voice is weird, but I'm not so embarrassed anymore.

 

Helena offered to check my homework. Kindly.

 

Jürgen looked at me twice. I don't like it. I don't want looks like that.

 

Helga is sweet. She doesn't talk much. I like her.

 

Els pays for my groceries. I don't know why she does it. But she does.

 

He closed the notebook.

 

She began doing vocal exercises in front of the mirror: scales, long vowels, entire phrases. Her voice sounded more stable. Less shaky. Still high, but hers.

 

He went to bed at 10:00 PM. He turned off the light.

 

He thought of his blond classmates, their blue eyes, their laughter...

 

He thought of Els.

 

He thought, Maybe I don't need to be like them.

 

Maybe just being here is enough for me.

 

He whispered in the darkness:

 

«Femke De Jong.

 

Day two.

 

Continues."

 

Chapter Eight

 

The third day of school brought a pale, unexpected sun, the kind that appears in October and makes everything seem lighter for a couple of hours. Femke arrived in class at 8:05, her curly hair loose and still damp from her morning shower, her backpack slung over her right shoulder. She weighed 85.8 kilos that morning—marked precisely on the scale. The diet continued relentlessly: breakfast of 200 grams of 0% Greek yogurt, 30 grams of cooked oats with cinnamon, and a hard-boiled egg. No sugar, no milk, no exceptions.

 

She sat in her usual spot by the window. The biology teacher was setting up the projector for a lesson on eukaryotic cells. Femke opened her notebook and began drawing diagrams in the margins, precise lines, labels in tiny block letters.

 

Helena entered last, her straight blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail, her smile as bright as ever. She paused for a moment at Jürgen's desk and gave him a gentle push on the shoulder.

 

“Did you do your biology homework or did you copy Helga again?”

 

Jürgen laughed softly, his German accent soft on the vowels.

 

"No, I did this time. I swear."

 

Helena leaned toward him and whispered something Femke didn't hear. Jürgen blushed slightly, then patted her arm. It wasn't official yet, but the atmosphere between them had changed: glances that lasted a second too long, smiles that came automatically.

 

Femke looked away. She didn't care. She didn't care. Relationships like that—kisses, entwined hands, hallway dramas—seemed distant to her, like a movie she's watching from outside. Routine was enough for her: gym, school, notebooks, Els.

 

During class, the teacher had them pair up for an exercise on mitochondria and chloroplasts. Femke ended up with Alette, who immediately turned to her with a shy smile.

 

"Do you want to stay with me? I don't understand anything about this stuff."

 

Femke nodded.

 

"Certain."

 

They worked in silence for ten minutes. Alette was good at drawing, Femke was precise with her definitions. They finished before the others.

 

Alette whispered, "Thanks. You're super organized."

 

Femke smiled softly. "It's just habit."

 

At recess, the group gathered again in the covered corridor. Willem and Helga were already there, sitting next to each other on a bench. Helga rested her head lightly on Willem's shoulder, as he showed her something on his phone. They laughed softly. Nothing dramatic, but it was clear: they were together, or about to become one.

 

Helena and Jürgen joined soon after. Helena took Jürgen's hand for a moment, squeezed it, then let go as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Jürgen didn't say anything, but his smile was different—more open, more confident.

 

Femke watched them from afar, leaning against the wall with her backpack between her legs. She felt no envy. She felt nothing like desire. Just a kind of relief: things were falling into place, without her being in the way.

 

Willem looked up and saw her.

 

"Femke! Come here, sit down."

 

She approached slowly, sat on the edge of the bench, not too close.

 

“How did biology go?” Helga asked, her voice soft with that light German accent.

 

"Good. We finished early."

 

Jürgen nodded. "You're good at school, aren't you?"

 

Femke shrugged. "I study a lot."

 

He didn't add anything else. He didn't want to talk about himself. He didn't want them to ask too much.

 

Helena changed the subject: "There's a party at Alette's next Saturday. Is everyone coming? Femke, are you coming?"

 

Femke hesitated. A party meant people, music, alcohol perhaps, bodies too close together.

 

"Maybe. I see."

 

Helena didn't insist. "Okay, think about it. It would be nice to have you there."

 

The bell rang. They returned to class.

 

After school, Femke went to the gym as usual. Els was already there, on the exercise bike.

 

"How's school going?"

 

Femke got into the next car, set it to medium resistance.

 

"Good. My classmates are nice. They're pairing up."

 

Els raised an eyebrow. "And you?"

 

Femke shook her head. "Not me. I don't care."

 

Els nodded slowly, without judging.

 

"That's okay. Not everyone has to follow the same pattern. You have other things to do: school, gym, getting strong."

 

Femke smiled slightly. "Yes."

 

They ran/cycled for forty minutes. Then Els stopped the car.

 

"I'll send you more money tonight for groceries. And for the textbooks you're missing. Don't argue."

 

Femke opened her mouth to protest, but Els raised a hand.

 

"Listen. Three years ago, I lost my three children in a plane crash. A low-cost flight from Amsterdam to Barcelona. There was nothing I could do. Since then... I've had no one to cuddle. You remind me a little of my youngest daughter. I'm not trying to buy you. I'm just... filling a hole. Let me do it."

 

Femke felt a lump in her throat. She didn't cry—she almost never cried—but she nodded slowly.

 

“Okay. Thanks, Els.”

 

Els patted her on the shoulder, harder this time.

 

"Now go home and eat protein. Tomorrow at 6:45, don't be late."

 

Femke returned home at 6:45 PM. She cooked baked salmon (weighed 150g), sautéed spinach, and 80g of sweet potatoes. She ate while looking out the window at the rain that had started falling again.

 

He opened the notebook.

 

Day 3 – VWO

Helena and Jürgen are together (or almost).

Willem and Helga ditto.

Alette is kind, she asked me to work together.

Nobody asked me anything “strange”.

Good like this.

Els told me about her children. They died in a plane crash.

That's why it helps me.

It feels weird, but… it feels good.

 

He closed the notebook.

 

She did vocal exercises for twenty minutes: long sentences, controlled breathing. Her voice sounded firmer, still high-pitched but less fragile.

 

He went to bed at 9:45 pm.

 

He thought about his companions, about the couples that were forming.

 

He thought of Els.

 

She thought, I don't need a boyfriend.

I need this: routine, strength, someone to tell me “keep going.”

 

He whispered in the darkness:

«Femke De Jong.

Day three.

Nothing changes."

 

Continues...

Chapter Nine

 

Saturday arrived with torrential rain, the kind that seemed to dump the entire North Sea on Amsterdam in a single night. Femke hesitated in front of the mirror for a good twenty minutes before deciding whether or not to go. Finally, she put on black jeans, an oversized gray hoodie (the one she wore to the gym), waterproof sneakers, and let her curly hair down, getting wet just walking down the stairs. She weighed 185 pounds that morning—another pound lost in a week. The strict diet was working, but tonight she wouldn't count calories: she'd just eat what was available, guilt-free.

 

She arrived at Alette's house at 8:45 PM, soaking wet despite her umbrella. The house was a large apartment in an old building in De Pijp, with high ceilings and creaky parquet floors. Electronic music playing softly, the lights dim, and about twenty young people scattered between the living room and kitchen. The smell of pizza, chips, beer, and the sweet scent of someone who had smoked weed on the balcony.

 

Alette saw her immediately and ran to hug her.

 

"You came! Come in, you're soaking wet."

 

Femke took off her hood, her curls already puffed up with humidity.

 

"Thank you for the invitation."

 

Helena and Jürgen were in the kitchen, officially holding hands. Helena kissed her on the cheek.

 

"Femke! Would you like something to drink?"

 

"Water is fine."

 

Willem and Helga were on the couch, she with her head resting on his chest, he stroking her platinum blonde hair. They looked like a couple on the cover of a magazine: relaxed, natural, happy.

 

Femke sat in a corner, glass of water in hand, observing everything without participating too much. The party was cheerful, but she felt like an outside observer. That was fine with her.

 

Then he saw it.

 

A tall guy, short brown hair, a neat beard, and a blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He was laughing with a group near the window, a glass of beer in his hand. She recognized him instantly: Mark. Jens's friend. She'd seen him dozens of times as a child—he'd walk Jens home after wild nights out, help him up the stairs when he was too drunk to make it alone. Mark always laughed out loud, patted Jens on the back, and winked at her when she passed his room.

 

Femke felt her heart race. Mark didn't recognize her—obviously. She had changed too much: fifteen-year-old face, long curly hair, a different voice, a different body. To him, she was just a new girl among Alette's friends.

 

She stood up slowly. She wanted to get closer. She wanted to ask him: “Do you know where Jens is? Do you know if he's okay? Do you know he left me alone with her?” But the words died in her throat.

 

Jens had abandoned her when she was ten. He'd walked out the door after yet another argument with Marit and never returned. Not a phone call, not a letter, not a message. Just silence. Mark probably knew where he was. She probably still saw him.

 

But what was the point of asking?

 

Jens had chosen to save himself. From Marit. From that house that stank of bleach and anger. Femke understood him, deep down. But she hated him all the same.

 

He turned to go back to his new friends – Helena and Alette were dancing softly in the living room – when the front door opened.

 

Jens entered.

 

He was well dressed: dark jacket, white shirt, black jeans, hair a little longer than he remembered, but still with the same tired look. He had an arm around the shoulders of a tall, blonde girl in her twenties—Alette's older sister, the one who was studying at university and occasionally picked her sister up from parties.

 

Jens laughed at something the girl said to him, then looked up and scanned the room.

 

Femke felt her blood run cold.

 

He couldn't see her. He shouldn't have seen her.

 

He spun around, hood up, head down. He hurried across the living room, bumping into someone, muttering "sorry." He walked out the door without saying goodbye.

 

It was pouring outside. The water hit her face like needles. She walked quickly to the street corner, took out her phone, and opened the Uber app. An Uber arrived in three minutes.

 

She got into the car soaking wet.

 

«To Noord, please.»

 

The driver nodded without asking questions.

 

During the ride, she looked out the window, tears mixing with the rain on the glass. She didn't really cry—she didn't anymore—but her chest ached, a dull, old ache.

 

Jens was there. Not just around. He was engaged to Alette's sister. He was living his life, laughing, drinking beer, hugging someone.

 

And he had never wondered how she was doing.

 

He'd never checked. He'd never sent a message. Nothing.

 

She hated him for it. But at the same time, she understood: he had saved himself from Marit. From that mother who destroyed everything she touched.

 

He arrived home at 11:10 PM. He paid the Uber, ran up the stairs, went inside, closed the door, and took off his wet clothes, leaving a puddle on the floor.

 

Hot shower. Boiling water that scalded her skin. She stayed under it for twenty minutes, until her skin was red and steam filled the bathroom.

 

He went out, dried himself, put on loose pajamas and an old sweatshirt.

 

He threw himself on the bed without turning on the light.

 

He didn't write in his notebook that evening.

 

He did not do vocal exercises.

 

He just stared at the ceiling in the dark.

 

She thought of Jens laughing with the blonde girl. She thought of Mark, who hadn't recognized her. She thought of her classmates, who might be wondering why she'd run away.

 

He thought of Els.

 

She thought: I'm not going back to the party. I'm not going back to Jens. I won't ask him anything. I have to deal with this. Alone.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

Sleep came heavy, without dreams.

Continues...

 

Chapter Ten

 

Chapter Ten

Monday arrived with low, gray skies, but no rain. Femke woke at 5:40 a.m., as usual. The scale read 184.4 pounds—another pound she'd lost over the weekend, despite the party and the little she'd eaten (just a slice of pizza and water). She felt tired, but not weak. The anger from the night before had settled in the pit of her stomach, like a cold, unmoving stone.

Cold shower. Clothes: black jeans, gray sweatshirt, curly hair pulled back in a high ponytail that still reached mid-back. Backpack. She left without breakfast—she wasn't hungry.

At the gym Els was already waiting for her on the treadmill.

“You’re two minutes late,” he said without turning around.

"Excuse me."

They ran in silence for fifteen minutes. Then Els slowed down.

"Your face is strange. What happened on Saturday?"

Femke stared at the machine's display: speed 7.1 km/h, heart rate 148.

"I went to the party. I left early."

Els nodded slowly.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Femke shook her head.

"No. Not yet."

"Okay. Whenever you want, I'm here. I won't ask you questions unless you want them."

Femke nodded. They finished their training in silence. Els patted her on the shoulder before leaving.

"Eat protein today. And study. The rest will come naturally."

Femke arrived at school at 8:00. The courtyard was half empty due to the cold. She entered Class 1V4 and sat down. A few minutes later, the others arrived.

Helena was the first to notice her.

"Femke! Hey, you disappeared on Saturday. Everything okay?"

Femke nodded, voice soft.

"Yes. I felt sick. Sorry."

Alette came closer immediately.

"You worried me. I thought you'd had a fight with someone or something."

"No, no. Just... tired. Too many people."

Helena smiled kindly.

"Understood. Next time, we'll save you a quiet spot in the corner. You don't have to dance or talk to everyone."

"Thank you."

Jürgen and Willem arrived together. Jürgen nodded, but said nothing about running away. Helga gave her a shy smile and sat down next to Willem.

During the first hour—history—Femke took notes in silence. No one pressed. No one asked her for details. They gave her space. It was the first time she felt grateful for the silence.

At recess, he went out into the courtyard. He leaned against the usual wall, backpack at his feet. He looked up at the gray sky. He thought of Jens laughing with Alette's sister. He thought how absurd it was: him there, just a few meters away from her, unaware. And she running away like a thief.

Helga approached slowly, hands in her pockets.

«Femke… can I sit down?»

Femke nodded.

Helga leaned against the wall beside her. She didn't speak right away. They both looked out at the empty courtyard.

Finally Helga said softly, with a soft German accent:

"I saw you running out on Saturday. You looked… scared. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. Just… if you need to talk to someone who understands what it's like to run away from something, I'm here."

Femke looked at her. Helga had clear blue eyes, but there was something serious in them, something more than just sweet girlfriend-like sweetness.

"Thank you," Femke whispered. "It's… not easy to explain."

Helga nodded.

"There's no need to explain. Just know you're not alone here."

He didn't add anything else. He stayed there with her until the bell rang, in silence.

The rest of the day passed slowly. Lessons, notes, quick glances from her classmates. No one pressured her. No one joked about her escape.

After school, Femke went to the gym alone—Els had a doctor's appointment. She did an hour of light weights and half an hour on the stationary bike. She sweated profusely. When she finished, she felt lighter, as if her body had released some of the pent-up anger.

He returned home at 6:30. He cooked chicken breast, broccoli, and brown rice. He ate by the window, looking out at the wet street.

He opened the notebook for the first time since Saturday.

Monday – VWO

The comrades did not insist.

Helga told me she understands what it means to run away.

I didn't tell her anything, but… it did me good.

Jens was there. With Alette's sister.

He didn't see me.

It's better that way.

I don't want to know why he never came back.

I still hate him.

But I understand.

Els told me “the rest will pass”.

I hope he's right.

He closed the notebook.

She did vocal exercises for fifteen minutes. Her voice came out stronger, more controlled. Still high-pitched, but with a new stability.

He went to bed at 9:30 pm.

He thought of Helga.

He thought of Els.

She thought of Jens laughing with someone else.

He thought: I won't look for it.

I will never speak to him again.

I already have a family here.

Not perfect.

But mine.

He whispered in the darkness:

«Femke De Jong.

Day after day.

There's no going back

 

 Chapter Eleven

 

Chapter Eleven

 

On Tuesday morning, Femke woke with a dull headache, as if someone had been pressing a thumb between her eyebrows all night. The scale read 185 pounds—another tiny, but steady, gain. She felt no satisfaction. She felt only empty, as if her body were still moving by inertia while her head had remained still that Saturday night, in front of Alette's door, with Jens laughing in the hall.

Cold shower. Water stinging her skin. She washed her curly hair with the cheap shampoo Els had put on her shopping list, dried it with the old towel until it was a wild tangle all the way down to her bottom. She tied it in a high ponytail, but some strands escaped and stuck to her damp neck. She got dressed: black jeans, a plain white T-shirt under an oversized gray sweatshirt, and sneakers. She looked at the mirror for a second.

Black eyes ringed with tiredness.

Cheeks less round than before, but still soft.

Small mouth, pale lips.

She looked like a fifteen-year-old who hadn't slept in days.

Because that's how it was.

He arrived at the gym at 6:42. Els was already there, on the exercise bike, headphones in, but when he saw Femke, he slowed down and took out one earbud.

"You have the eyes of someone who has seen a ghost."

Femke got into the next car and set the resistance to low. It didn't respond immediately.

They ran/cycled for ten minutes in silence. Then Femke spoke, her voice soft but hoarse with exhaustion.

«I saw my brother on Saturday.»

Els didn't stop, but nodded slowly.

"The one who left when you were little?"

"Yes. He was there. At the party. With Alette's older sister. He was laughing. He seemed… happy."

Els turned off the exercise bike. He turned to her.

"And you?"

"I ran away. He didn't see me. I couldn't... I couldn't talk to him."

Els dried her face with the towel.

"Do you want to talk to him now?"

Femke shook her head hard.

"No. I don't want to know why he didn't come back. I don't want to know if he even thought of me once. I don't want to... forgive him. Or hate him more."

Els looked at her for a long time.

"Then don't. You have enough to carry already. Don't add him to it."

Femke nodded, but the lump in her throat didn't dissolve.

They finished training. Els gave her a protein bar from her bag.

"Eat it. And come to dinner at my place tonight. I won't take no for an answer. I'll cook. No counting calories for one night. Just real food."

Femke hesitated.

«Okay.»

At 8:00, she entered the classroom. The group was already there. Helena and Jürgen sat close together, hands clasped under the desk. Willem and Helga shared earphones, Helga smiling shyly as she listened to something. Alette was telling a story about a cat that stole a slice of pizza from the table.

When they saw Femke, everyone looked up.

Helena was the first.

"Femke! Are you feeling better? You disappeared on Saturday..."

"Yes. I felt sick. Sorry."

Alette came closer.

"No problem. But text me next time, okay? I was worried."

Femke nodded.

"I promise."

The Dutch lesson began. Analysis of a text on "family and detachment." Femke wrote notes without looking up. Every word felt like a needle.

At recess, she went out into the courtyard. She sat on a lonely bench, backpack between her legs. She looked up at the gray sky. She thought of Jens coming in laughing, his arm around the blonde girl. She thought of how he'd built a life without her. Without any guilt, apparently.

Helga approached slowly, as usual.

"I can?"

Femke nodded.

Helga sat down next to her, hands in her pockets.

"You don't have to tell me anything. But if you want to vent... I know what it's like to have your past following you around."

Femke looked at her. Helga had clear blue eyes, but there was a depth to them.

"My brother... I saw him on Saturday. He was there. He didn't recognize me. He doesn't even know I still exist."

Helga nodded slowly.

"Do you want to talk to him?"

"No. It wouldn't change anything. He left when I was ten. He left me with... her. And he never came back."

Helga was silent for a while.

"My father left when we were eight. Jürgen and I. He came back after two years, but only for money. Then he disappeared again. My mother raised us alone. I know what it means to hate someone and understand them at the same time."

Femke felt her eyes sting. She didn't cry, but her throat tightened.

"How do you not hate him every day?"

Helga shrugged.

"I don't hate him anymore. I pity him. But I won't let him into my life. You chose to come here. You chose a new life. Don't let him ruin it for you."

Femke nodded slowly.

“Thank you, Helga.”

Helga smiled shyly.

"We're friends, right?"

Femke smiled for the first time that day.

"Yes."

The afternoon passed slowly. Lessons, notes, the looks of her classmates. No one insisted on the party. No one asked uncomfortable questions. Femke felt… seen. Not as a victim, but as a person.

After school he went to Els.

Els's apartment was small but warm, in an old building in Noord. It smelled of garlic, rosemary, and fresh bread. Els opened the door wearing a stained apron.

"Come in, little one. I made baked chicken with potatoes and vegetables. No scales tonight."

Femke came in. She took off her shoes. She sat down at the small kitchen table.

Els served generous portions.

"Eat. Talk whenever you want."

Femke ate slowly. The food was good, authentic, and unpretentious. After the second bite, she spoke.

"I saw my brother on Saturday. He was there. With Alette's sister. He didn't see me. I... ran away."

Els nodded, without interrupting.

"Do you hate it?"

"A little. But I understand. Our mother was… a monster. He saved himself by running away. I didn't make it."

Els put down her fork.

"You've made it now. You're here. School, gym, friends. You chose not to run away anymore. That matters more than anything."

Femke felt the tears coming. This time she didn't stop them. Two drops rolled down her cheeks.

Els took her hand.

"You're not alone, Femke. Not anymore."

Femke nodded, sobbing softly.

They ate in silence afterward. Then Els gave her a blanket and sat her down on the couch.

"Stay as long as you want. I'm not kicking you out."

Femke stayed until 10:30 PM. They spoke little. They watched an old movie on TV. When she left, Els gave her a big hug.

"Tomorrow at 6:45. Don't be late."

Femke walked home, under a slightly clearer sky. She went inside, took a hot shower, and put on her pajamas.

He opened the notebook.

Tuesday – VWO

Helga told me we're friends.

Els made me eat without counting calories.

He hugged me.

I cried.

Not for Jens.

For me.

For everything I've lost.

But also for what I'm finding.

He closed the notebook.

He went to bed.

He whispered in the darkness:

«Femke De Jong.

You are no longer alone.

Continues.

 

 Chapter Twelve

 

Chapter Twelve

On Wednesday morning, Femke woke up with a sore body, but it wasn't just from yesterday's training. It was as if Jens's emotional burden, suspended since Saturday, had finally begun to melt away, giving way to a different kind of tiredness: that of someone who's run too long without stopping. The scale read 83.7 kilos. Three and a half kilos less than at the beginning of the month. It wasn't an impressive number for most people, but for her, it was a quiet victory, measured to the gram, earned with hard-boiled eggs, steamed spinach, and running in the rain.

A hot shower, this time—she treated herself to it after dinner at Els. She washed her curly hair slowly, combed it with her fingers while it was still wet, and let it loose all the way to her bottom. Today she didn't tie it up. She wanted it to feel heavy, alive, like a reminder that her body was changing but not disappearing. She got dressed: black gym leggings under an oversized gray sweatshirt, a plain white T-shirt, and sneakers. A backpack slung over her shoulders. She stared at the mirror for a full minute.

Less dark circles in the eyes.

More defined cheeks, cheekbones that were starting to emerge.

Longer neck, less rounded shoulders.

He still looked fifteen.

But a fifteen-year-old who was growing inside a body that finally obeyed.

She arrived at the gym at 6:38. Els was already there, on the treadmill, going 8.5 km/h. When he saw her, he slowed down and smiled—a small, but warm smile.

"Did you sleep?"

Femke got into the next car.

"Better than Saturday. Thanks for last night."

Els shrugged.

"Don't thank me. Cooking for someone makes me feel useful. And you eat like a bird, but at least you eat."

They ran for forty minutes. Femke increased her speed to 7.2 km/h without realizing it. Her breathing was more regular, her legs felt less heavy. When they finished, Els handed her a bottle of water.

"Do you have class until 3:30 this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Then come over later. I'll show you how to cook chicken without it looking like cardboard. And I'll give you some clothes. I have stuff I don't use anymore, and you're losing weight too fast for your jeans."

Femke hesitated.

"I don't want to take advantage..."

Els interrupted her.

"Take advantage of it. I'm happy. And besides, if you don't take them, they'll end up in charity. Better if you wear them."

Femke nodded.

"OK thank you."

At 8:05, he entered classroom 1V4. The group was already there, spread out among the desks. Helena and Jürgen sat next to each other, she handing him an earpiece, he smiling at her. Willem and Helga shared a pack of gum, Helga laughing softly at something he whispered to her. Alette was drawing hearts in the margin of her notebook.

When they saw Femke, Alette raised her hand.

“Femke! Sit here today, if you like.” He pointed to the empty desk next to his.

Femke nodded and sat down. She wasn't used to being invited so openly, but she didn't say no.

Math class began. Linear equations, graphs. Femke quickly solved the exercises and passed the notebook to Alette to check.

"You're so fast," Alette whispered. "Can you help me with the last one later?"

"Certain."

During recess, they all went out into the courtyard together. The group stopped near the covered bench. Helena took out a chocolate bar and broke it.

"Anyone want some?"

Femke shook her head.

"I am fine thank you."

Helga offered her an apple from her bag.

"Take this. It's sweet."

Femke took it.

"Thank you."

They ate in silence for a while. Then Jürgen spoke, looking at Femke.

"You disappeared early on Saturday. Is everything okay now?"

Femke nodded.

"Yes. Just… a few personal things. But I'm fine."

Jürgen smiled.

“If you need to talk, you know where to find us.”

He didn't insist. No one insisted. It was as if they understood, without needing words, that there were limits that couldn't be crossed.

The afternoon passed in a slow flow: English, geography, physical education (a light jog in the indoor gym—Femke finished among the first, without getting too out of breath). At 3:45 PM she left school and went straight to Els.

The apartment smelled of spices and lemon. Els had already prepared the chicken: breasts marinated with garlic, rosemary, lemon, and a drizzle of olive oil. She popped it in the oven.

«Come, look.»

She showed Femke how to cut vegetables without wasting anything, how to season without overdoing the salt. Femke watched, taking mental notes. Then Els opened a closet in her bedroom.

"Here. Take what you want."

There were T-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, leggings, even a pair of low boots. Everything was clean and neatly folded.

Femke grabbed a soft black sweatshirt, two basic T-shirts, a pair of gray leggings, and a lightweight waterproof jacket.

"Safe?"

Els nodded.

"Sure. And tomorrow I'll take you to the gym a little early. We'll lift weights together. You have arm strength, I can see it. You could be lifting 8 kg per side by the end of the month."

Femke smiled.

"Let's try."

She returned home at 8:00 PM with a bag full of clothes and a pan of leftover chicken to reheat. She cooked fresh vegetables, weighed the portion, and ate in front of the window.

He opened the notebook.

Wednesday – VWO

Alette asked me to sit with her.

Helga gave me an apple.

Jürgen asked if I was okay, but didn't insist.

Els taught me how to cook real chicken.

He gave me clothes.

He hugged me again before leaving.

I don't know how to thank her.

I don't know how to thank any of them.

But I'm learning to say "thank you" without feeling indebted.

I weighed 83.7 kg this morning.

Maybe below 83 tomorrow.

The body changes.

The head changes more slowly.

But it changes.

He closed the notebook.

She did vocal exercises for thirty minutes: complete phrases, diaphragmatic breathing, a small musical scale she'd learned online. Her voice came out soft, high, but with a new clarity. She no longer trembled.

He went to bed at 10:00 pm.

He thought about Jens – less than before.

She thought of Helga who had told her “we are friends”.

She thought of Els telling her “eat.”

He thought, I don't have a perfect family.

But I have people who choose to be there.

Everyday.

It's more than I've ever had.

He whispered in the darkness:

«Femke De Jong.

Day after day.

It doesn't weigh as much as it used to.

Continues...

 

 Chapter Thirteen

 

Chapter Thirteen

Thursday passed slowly and grayly, with a dull light filtering through the school windows as if the sky had forgotten to turn on. Femke arrived in class with her curly hair loose, still damp from her morning shower, and weighed 180 pounds—marked on the scale with her usual obsessive precision. The oversized gray sweatshirt Els had given her the day before was already a bit loose on her shoulders, a small but visible sign that her body was obeying.

Classes passed without incident: math, English, and a double hour of biology where she drew perfect mitochondria in her notebook while Alette whispered questions. At recess, the group gathered in the covered corridor. Helena was the first to come up with the idea.

"Guys, are we going out tonight? Like... dinner and then something. I'm tired of staying home and studying."

Jürgen nodded immediately.

"I'm in. Where?"

Willem raised his hand.

"Naam Kee? Cantonese food. It's near Nieuwmarkt, not too expensive, and the food is good."

Helga smiled shyly.

“I like the dim sum there.”

Alette looked at Femke.

"Are you in, Femke?"

Femke hesitated only a second. After Saturday, she no longer felt like partying, but this seemed different: dinner, friends, no mandatory alcohol.

"Okay. I'm in."

At 3:45 PM they left school together. They took tram 14 to Nieuwmarkt. Naam Kee was an old-fashioned restaurant, with red neon lights above the door, Formica tables, and laminated menus. The smell of soy, fried garlic, and steam from bamboo baskets wafted through the air. They sat at a round table for six, shoulder to shoulder.

They ordered: steamed shrimp, pork dumplings, stir-fried noodles, sweet and sour vegetables, and chicken gong bao. Femke ate a small portion of everything, slowly ate, and mentally counted the calories but didn't write them down—she could relax for one evening.

They talked about everything and nothing: boring homework, weird teachers, weekend plans. Jürgen told a story about a family trip to Germany, Helga filled in details with her soft accent, Willem laughed out loud, and Helena nudged him. Alette drew smiley faces on a napkin and passed them to Femke.

"For you. Because you're always serious but cute."

Femke blushed slightly and put the napkin in her pocket.

"Thank you."

They left the restaurant at 7:30 PM, full and with cheeks flushed from the heat. It was cold outside, but no one wanted to go home.

Willem proposes:

"Shall we go to the Black Tiger Bar? It's in the De Wallen area, but it's a normal bar, not a weird place. Billiards, beer, loud music. No X-rated stuff, don't worry."

Helena nodded.

"I've been there. It's cool. And they have free pool after 8 p.m."

Femke wasn't familiar with the area, but she nodded. They walked along the canals, past brightly lit shop windows and tourists with cameras. The Black Tiger Bar was tucked away on a narrow street, a black sign with a golden tiger, electronic music pouring from the open door. Inside: low lights, a pool table in the center, worn sofas, a dark wood bar. The smell of beer, vape smoke, and old wood.

They sat at a table near the pool table. They ordered: beer for the men, cocktails for the women, and lemon water for Femke.

The bartender, a man in his forties with tattoos on his arms, asked for ID for the beers.

Everyone took out their wallets. Helena showed a fake ID (date of birth shifted by two years), Jürgen and Helga did the same with doctored German documents, Willem laughed and showed his fake, and Alette pulled out a counterfeit scooter license.

When it was Femke's turn, she hesitated. She only had Femke De Jong's fake ID—she was 15—but she knew that to drink alcohol, you needed something that showed you were of age. She didn't want to drink, but she didn't want to look like a child either.

He pulled out Lina Voss's old ID. Thirty years old. A photo from four years earlier, a rounder face, shorter hair, and a tired look.

The bartender looked at her, then at her, then back at the card.

"Thirty years? Seriously?"

The group turned around as one. Immediate laughter.

Helena burst out laughing.

"Femke! What the fuck, you're exaggerating! You look like our little sister!"

Willem doubled over.

"Thirty? Come on, you look like twelve!"

Jürgen smiled crookedly.

"Nice shot. But I don't believe he's dead either."

Alette took the paper and held it up to the light.

“It seems real… but you’re not thirty, are you?”

Femke blushed up to her ears, but smiled softly.

“Water with lemon for me, anyway.”

The bartender laughed and handed back the card.

"Okay, 'thirty-year-old.' Water for Grandma."

Everyone laughed. Femke put the paper away, feeling stupid but also… relieved. No one had asked any real questions. They had teased her, yes, but lightly, like friends do.

They played pool for an hour. Femke was terrible, but she laughed when she missed a shot and the ball bounced off the rim. Helga taught her how to hold the cue, while Willem played the fool and ended up dropping a beer (luckily empty). The music was blasting, the strobe lights low, the atmosphere warm and noisy.

Around 10:30 pm the bartender returned to the table.

"Okay, guys. Last round. Real IDs this time, or I'll call the police. No fuss."

Sudden silence.

Helena looked at the others.

"Shit."

Jürgen whispered:

«Go.»

Willem grabbed Helga's arm.

«Let's run!»

Hysterical laughter. Everyone jumped up, backpacks slung over their shoulders, hoodies pulled up. Femke ran with them, exiting through the back door that someone had left open. The bartender shouted something, but they were already out on the street, in the light rain, laughing like madmen.

They ran two blocks to the Nieuwmarkt, then turned toward a small park hidden behind the canals. They stopped, panting, under a large tree, lit by a dim streetlamp.

Willem took out a pre-rolled joint.

"Who wants?"

Helena and Jürgen said yes. Alette nodded. Helga shrugged and accepted.

Femke smelled it before they even lit it. Sweet, pungent, familiar grass. Too familiar.

My heart raced. My hands trembled. The air thickened.

«No… not me.»

But it was too late. The smell hit her like a physical memory: evenings in the old apartment, Jens rolling on the kitchen table, Marit screaming from the next room, the first time she'd inhaled and felt the world slow down.

At one point Alette took out a mango-flavored e-cigarette and passed it to Femke.

"Try it. It's good."

Femke recovered; she'd never tried an e-cigarette before. She took it and inhaled slowly. She immediately grimaced.

"No thanks, that's disgusting. It tastes like melted mango ice cream."

Alette burst out laughing.

"That's exactly why I vape it! Ahh!"

Everyone laughed together. Femke handed back the e-cigarette, laughing too.

The evening ended around 11:30 PM, laughing about the fake ID story. They said goodbye in front of the tram station.

“See you tomorrow at school,” Helena said.

“Night, Femke,” Alette added with a smile.

Femke waved goodbye to everyone and took the tram to Noord. During the ride, she looked out the window, a small smile on her lips.

Nothing dramatic had happened.

Just a normal night out with the guys.

For her, it was already a lot.

Continues...

 

 Chapter Fourteen

 

Chapter Fourteen

On Friday morning at school the group was in pieces.

Helena was yawning constantly, Jürgen was resting his head on the desk, Willem's eyes were red, and Alette looked like a zombie. Only Femke was awake and attentive, taking notes as usual.

During the break Helena looked at her enviously.

"How can you feel so good? I feel dead."

Femke smiled.

“I only drank water last night.”

After school, no one wanted to go home right away. Alette suggested:

"Shall we go downtown? Maybe to the new café they opened, the one with the pool table."

They all went to Café The Minds. It was a nice, bright place, with large windows, comfortable sofas, and two pool tables in the back. They immediately decided it would become their regular Saturday spot: pool, chatting, and relaxing.

They ordered drinks and some desserts. Femke only had iced tea.

While they were laughing at one of Willem's stories, a young man who worked there approached them. He was about five feet tall, with curly black hair, brown eyes, and an athletic but not overly so build. He had a kind smile and a slight Spanish accent.

"Hi, my name's Mark Rodriguez. If you want to play pool later, the big table will be free soon."

His eyes rested on Femke longer than necessary. He smiled at her with obvious interest.

"You're new, aren't you? I've never seen you before."

Femke blushed slightly.

“Yes… I’m new in town.”

Even if she wondered what he meant, it's Amsterdam so no one would notice if you're new or not.

Mark struck up a conversation with her: he asked her name, if she liked the place, if she often went downtown. He was polite, but it was clear he was hitting on her.

The group was shocked.

Jürgen, who saw Femke as a little sister to protect, tensed. Willem, who had had a crush on her for weeks, immediately became tense and irritated.

When Mark walked away for a moment, Jürgen intervened:

"Sorry, Femke, but he's like 34 or younger, I don't know. It's weird that he's hitting on you, huh?"

Willem nodded, visibly annoyed.

“Yes, it’s absurd.”

Femke felt flattered, but above all deeply embarrassed. For the first time, she was concretely aware of one of the biggest problems of her situation.

"Come on guys, maybe he just wants to chat."

The boys looked at her askance, then laughed, she laughed with them, sometimes she was really naive.

Later, while they were playing pool, Mark returned and tried to talk to her again. This time Willem intervened openly.

“Look, she’s 15. Leave it alone.”

Mark threw up his hands and walked away, but not without giving Femke one last smile.

The evening continued. Around 10:30 PM, they left the club and headed toward the tram. Willem stayed behind with Femke. After a few minutes of silence, he said to her in a low voice:

"Femke... I like you. I really like you. I can't stop thinking about you. I know we're young, but... I'd like to try being with you."

Femke stopped. She looked him in the eye with a serious expression.

"Willem… thank you, you're sweet. But I can't."

He frowned.

"Why not?"

Femke lowered her voice, almost a whisper:

"Because I'm not interested in anyone. And anyway... I'm not interested in relationships. Not with you, not with Mark, not with anyone else. I'm asexual. I don't feel that kind of attraction."

Willem was silent for a few seconds, clearly affected by her words. He seemed disappointed, but also confused.

"...So there's no chance?"

Femke shook her head gently.

"I don't dislike it."

Willem nodded slowly, even though it was clear he didn't want to give up completely.

“Okay… for now.”

The evening ended like this. Everyone went home. Femke took the tram toward Noord, looking out the window with a sigh.

It had been a nice evening, but she had also realized that her lie was starting to create increasingly complicated problems.

But one thing was for sure: he couldn't bear the thought of hurting a kind boy like Willem.

Continues...

 

 Chapter Fifteen

 

Chapter Fifteen

On Saturday morning, Femke woke up early as usual. She went to the gym with Els, ran on the treadmill for almost an hour, did some light weight exercises, and returned home for breakfast of Greek yogurt, oatmeal, and a hard-boiled egg. The routine helped her maintain control.

In the afternoon, the group had already arranged to meet at Café The Minds. It had now officially become "their place." They arrived one at a time: Helena and Jürgen holding hands, Alette with her wavy hair loose, Helga with her usual calm demeanor, Willem with a big smile as soon as he saw Femke.

They sat at their usual table near the pool table. They ordered smoothies, iced coffees, and some desserts to share. Femke only had an iced lemon tea.

Willem, as usual, sat down next to her. He immediately passed her a butter biscuit.

"Try this. It's delicious. My mother made it this morning."

Femke accepted it with a kind smile.

“Thank you, Willem.”

During the afternoon, Willem was particularly cuddly. He'd pull her sweatshirt over her shoulders when he thought she was cold, offer her a drink straight from his glass, and touch her arm every time she laughed at one of his jokes. Every now and then, he'd even try to hug her from the side, awkwardly but affectionately.

Jürgen noticed him and occasionally raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Helga, on the other hand, smiled to herself: she had long since realized that Willem's crush on Femke had become quite serious.

Around 6:30 pm Femke proposed:

"You guys want to have a sleepover tonight? Movies, food, conversation... something chill. We can do it at my place."

Everyone agreed enthusiastically. But when Femke called Els to ask if she could pretend to be her mother and have them come to the house, Els replied in a firm voice:

"No, Femke. I'm so sorry, but it's better not to. I don't want to lie to your friends any more than necessary. And I don't want them coming into my house with this big lie."

Femke understood and didn't insist. She hung up with a light sigh.

"Let's change the plan," he said to the group. "Els isn't up to it tonight. Can we do it at your place, Jürgen?"

Jürgen nodded immediately.

"Sure! My parents are fine. As long as we don't destroy the house."

So the evening moved to the Müller twins' home, a spacious and welcoming apartment in the Oost district. Jürgen and Helga's parents were calm and hospitable. When they all arrived with backpacks full of chips, drinks, and pajamas, their mother smiled.

"Welcome! Go ahead, but try not to shout too much after midnight. If you're hungry, there's pizza in the freezer, and the kitchen is at your disposal."

The living room was transformed into a pajama party base camp: mattresses thrown on the floor, pillows everywhere, colorful blankets, dim lighting. They ordered three giant pizzas (Margherita, four cheeses, and one with ham and mushrooms), and brought out chips, cookies, gummy bears, and soft drinks.

They all sat in a circle. Helena and Jürgen sat close together, her head resting on his shoulder. Helga sat next to Femke, calm as ever. Alette had brought her favorite blanket and shared it with Femke. Willem, naturally, immediately took up a spot to Femke's right.

During the first hour they watched a horror film chosen by Willem (who then got scared first during a jumpscare scene and instinctively approached Femke, putting his arm around her shoulders).

“Are you cold?” he asked her softly, even though it wasn’t cold.

Femke smiled, but shifted slightly gently.

"I am fine thank you."

Willem didn't give up. Shortly afterward, he brought her a glass of orange juice, arranged the blanket over her legs, and, every time she laughed, gave her a gentle, affectionate shove.

Jürgen, on the other side, watched everything with a protective eye. At one point he leaned over to Femke and whispered:

“If it bothers you, tell me, okay?”

Femke shook her head.

“It’s just Willem… he’s nice, but he’s a bit over the top.”

The evening continued relaxed and pleasant. They talked about everything: weird teachers, boring homework, what they wanted to do when they grew up, embarrassing stories from the past. Helga recounted the time she and Jürgen were little in Germany and got lost in a supermarket. Alette imitated her biology teacher with hilarious accuracy. Helena and Jürgen exchanged light kisses on the cheek when they thought no one was looking.

Around midnight, they turned on the dim lights and put on a quieter movie. Willem continued to be a cuddler: he offered her candy straight from his hand, smoothed her hair that fell in her face, and at one point, he rested his head on her shoulder for a few minutes.

Femke let him do it, but always kept a small distance. Deep down, she felt tenderness for him, but also a clear awareness: she was thirty. Anything beyond friendship would be wrong.

Around two in the morning, they began to fall asleep one after another. Alette and Helena had fallen asleep, cuddled together on a mattress. Helga was asleep with her head on the pillow next to her brother. Jürgen was snoring softly.

Willem, half asleep, reached out to Femke again and murmured:

«Femke… I like you so much…»

Willem gently stroked her hand, but she didn't push it away. He snorted and turned away.

Of all of them, Helga was the one who snored, it was like having a carpenter in the house.

She stayed awake for a while longer, looking up at the ceiling of Jürgen's living room, listening to the quiet breathing of the others around her.

For the first time in a long time he felt almost part of something real.

It wasn't perfect.

It wasn't without problems.

But she was warm. She was alive.

She closed her eyes with a small smile.

“For now… that’s fine.”

Continues...

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

Chapter Sixteen

On Sunday morning at the Müllers' house the atmosphere was warm and lazy.

The rays of a weak sun filtered through the living room curtains, illuminating the sweet chaos of a late-night slumber party: mattresses strewn across the floor, blankets tangled, pillows thrown everywhere, half-empty crisp packets and plastic cups still on the coffee table.

One by one the boys were waking up.

Helena was the first to open her eyes. She stretched, yawning loudly, and nudged Jürgen, who was sleeping next to her, lightly.

“Mmm… what time is it?” he muttered thickly.

“Almost ten,” Helena replied, looking at her phone.

Alette sat up, her wavy hair all disheveled.

“I slept like a log… but I have a headache.”

Helga was quieter. She sat up calmly, ran a hand through her platinum blonde hair, and looked at Femke, who had been awake for a while, sitting with her back against the sofa and her knees drawn up to her chest.

Femke hadn't slept much. She'd spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking about Willem, his increasingly obvious crush, the conversation she'd had with Helga the night before. She felt overwhelmed. The lie was becoming too much to handle.

Willem was the last to wake. As soon as he opened his eyes, his gaze immediately sought Femke. As soon as he saw her, he smiled in that sweet, slightly awkward way he now only used with her. He got up, still in his pajamas, and went to sit next to her.

"Good morning," he said softly, draping a blanket over her shoulders even though it wasn't cold. "Did you sleep well?"

Femke smiled at him faintly.

"Enough."

Shortly after, while Jürgen's mother was preparing breakfast in the kitchen (pancakes, fruit, and orange juice), Femke took advantage of a moment when she and Helga were alone in a corner of the living room to ask her what was weighing on her heart.

«Helga… can I ask you something?»

Helga nodded, sitting closer.

"Certain."

Femke lowered her voice.

"Why did Willem propose to me? You two... it almost seemed like you were going to get married. You were so good together."

Helga was silent for a few seconds. She looked at Willem, who was helping Jürgen fold the mats on the other side of the room. Then she sighed softly.

"We moved too fast," she replied honestly. "We got together almost immediately. It was nice at first, but... it wasn't right. After a while, I realized Willem wasn't really in love with me. He only talked about you. Femke this, Femke that... every day. At first, it bothered me, but then I realized we weren't made for each other. Not in the right way."

Helga gave a small, sad but sincere smile.

"Deep down, I already knew. Willem is madly in love with you. He can't hide it. I don't think he's ever felt for me what he feels for you."

Femke felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She looked down at her hands.

He couldn't lie anymore.

But he couldn't even tell the truth.

The situation was becoming too much. Too complicated. Too dangerous. With each passing day, the lie grew bigger, more suffocating. Yet she couldn't say anything. She couldn't admit she was thirty. She couldn't say she was asexual. She couldn't say her entire life was a fiction built on the desperation of a woman who had tried to kill herself with bleach.

She was silent for a long moment. Helga gently squeezed her hand under the blanket, as if to say, "It's okay," even though they both meant something different by "It's okay."

He wondered what would happen if they found out that it wasn't Femke, but Lisa Voss.

He shook his head, it didn't exist, it shouldn't have happened, ever.

Around noon, after breakfast together, they decided to go for a stroll downtown. The air was fresh, the streets crowded with people strolling under a clear gray sky.

They all walked together: Helena and Jürgen hand in hand, Alette chatting with Helga, Willem always trying to stay close to Femke.

Femke was distracted. She walked with her mind elsewhere, thinking about how absurd her life had become. She thought about Els, about the gym, about school, about the lie that now weighed like a millstone on her chest. She thought about Willem, about his insistent sweetness, about the fact that she couldn't give him what he wanted.

Willem, taking advantage of a moment when the others were a little further ahead, window-shopping, stopped suddenly. He gently took Femke by the arm and turned her toward him.

«Femke…»

Before she could say anything, Willem leaned over and kissed her.

It was a sweet, awkward kiss, full of youthful emotion. His lips were warm, slightly trembling. For Femke, it was the first time anyone had truly kissed her. She had never felt anything like it before. Not as an adult. Not as a girl. Never.

For a second she stood still, surprised, confused. The world seemed to stop.

Then reality hit her like a violent slap.

No.

I cannot.

This thing is wrong.

Femke pulled back abruptly, placing her hands on Willem's chest to stop him.

“No… Willem, stop.”

He looked at her with eyes full of hope and confusion.

“But I… I love you.”

"I can't," she said, her voice soft but firm, almost trembling. "I can't do this. It's not right."

Willem tried to approach again, his gaze pleading.

“Femke, please… just give me a chance.”

In that moment of mounting panic, Femke stepped back without looking. She crossed the street without paying attention.

He didn't see the electric bicycle coming at high speed from the opposite side.

The blow was violent and sudden.

The sound of her body hitting the e-bike reverberated sharply through the air. Femke flew a few meters and landed heavily on the asphalt.

Everything went dark.

The screams of his friends came muffled, distant, as if from another world.

«Femke!»

«Oh God no!»

"Call an ambulance!"

Then nothing more.

Only darkness.

Absolute silence.

Continues...

 Chapter Seventeen

 

Chapter Seventeen 

The darkness did not last as long as Femke would have liked.

When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she recognized was the smell: disinfectant, clean but cold sheets, that faint hint of bleach that reminded her of home. The same room. The same hospital. The same bed she'd woken up in after drinking Clorox.

The heart monitor's beeping was slow and regular. The fluorescent light on the ceiling was the same as before. The window looked out onto the same gray inner courtyard. Only this time she wasn't alone.

Everyone was around the bed.

Helena was sitting in the nearest chair, her eyes red and her hand clutching the edge of the sheet. Jürgen stood beside her, arms crossed, jaw tense. Alette was leaning against the wall, pale as a ghost. Helga sat on the other side of the bed, silent but with shining eyes. Willem was at the far end of the room, his back against the door, as if he wanted to escape but couldn't move.

Everyone was looking at her.

Nobody spoke.

Femke tried to get up, but a sharp pain in her left shoulder made her groan. She had a large bruise on her right arm and a tight bandage around her head. The e-bike had grazed her, but the fall had been bad.

It was Helena who broke the silence, her voice low but trembling.

«…Lisa Voss?»

The true name fell into the room like a stone into a still pond.

Femke closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, she knew it was over. The doctor who had seen her in the emergency room had immediately recognized her name and face from her medical records from six months earlier. The same girl who had attempted suicide with bleach. The same damaged voice. The same thin scar on her left wrist that no one had ever noticed.

She looked at him strangely, she wanted to find a lie, but she didn't want to go on, she couldn't continue lying, at least not to them, to her friends,

Jurgen asks again, “…Lisa Voss?” repeating it, throwing her file with her name and surname on the covers. She takes it and puts it on the nightstand next to the bed.

She took a deep breath. "Yes," Femke whispered. Her soft, high-pitched voice filled the room. "I'm Lisa Voss."

No one said a word. The monitor's beeping seemed louder.

Helena had tears in her eyes.

"So… Femke never existed." Helga said disgustedly.

Femke nodded slowly. She looked at each of them, one by one. She saw confusion, pain, anger, betrayal. And, deep in Helga's eyes, even a hint of understanding.

"My name is Lisa Voss. I'm thirty. Not fifteen."

Willem took a step back, as if he'd been hit. His eyes instantly filled with tears. He shook his head, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he whirled, opened the door, and left the room without saying a word. His breath hitched as he ran down the corridor.

Femke felt a pang in her chest.

Jürgen was the first to speak, his voice low and hard.

"Explain everything to us. From the beginning. But know that we might not believe you; at this point you might just be a mythomaniac. Anyway, we'll ask the nurse for confirmation, and maybe the police."

Femke took a deep breath. She was right, about everything, how could they believe her? Her throat still burned from the accident, but she knew she couldn't run away anymore.

"Let me start. My mother is an abusive narcissist. She cleaned the house with bleach every day, as if it could wash away our flaws. She beat me over nothing. She screamed at me that I was dirty inside. My father left when I was six. Jens, my older brother, Alette's sister's boyfriend, held out until he was eighteen. Then he left too. She left me alone with her when I was ten. Not a single phone call. Nothing."

Her voice was shaking, but she continued.

I started taking drugs at fourteen so I couldn't hear her screams anymore. Weed, pills, cocaine, heroin. I lost all my friends. I attempted suicide twice: once with a razor at seventeen, the other with bleach six months ago. I survived, but with this ruined voice. In the hospital, I saw a stupid movie... 13 Going on 30. And I decided I didn't want to be Lisa Voss anymore. I wanted to steal the childhood I'd never had. So I falsified my documents. I became Femke De Jong, fifteen. I found Els, who helped me without knowing the whole truth. I got into school. I met you.

He looked at Alette, who had teary eyes.

"You treated me like a normal person. For the first time in my life, I actually laughed. I had friends. I ran in the gym. I heard someone say, 'You're my friend.' It was the best and worst thing I've ever done."

Helga had a tear rolling down her cheek then asked

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Because I would have lost everything," Femke replied, her voice breaking. "And because I didn't want your pity. I just wanted... to be normal for a while."

Jurgen was furious, I couldn't blame him, he said 

"Because lying about who you are and where you're from is completely normal. How the fuck did you come up with an idea like that? Didn't you think about the consequences, about how disturbing it is that a 30-year-old was sleeping with fourteen-year-olds? Didn't that seem wrong to you? I mean, you're acting seriously. In fact, I thought you were just mature, but instead, do you know what all this did to us? TRUST ISSUE! How could I ever trust other people after this, you're selfish. A crazy, possessed person." Helga hugged him while he cried, Helga glared at me.

I was about to get up so I could hug him and apologize as much as I could. 

At that moment the door opened again.

Alette had called her sister while Femke was speaking. Her older sister entered, followed by Jens.

Jens was pale. He was wearing the same dark jacket as always. When he saw Femke in bed, he stopped dead in his tracks.

«Lisa…»

Helena, Jürgen and the others turned to him, shocked.

Alette spoke first, voice shaking, she asked him

"Is what Marit did to Lisa true? Everything she told us... the beatings, the screaming, the bleach, the psychological abuse... is it true?"

Jens was silent for a few seconds. Then he approached the bed and sat on the chair next to his sister. He didn't touch her. He didn't look her in the eye. He just looked at the floor.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said in a low voice. 

Jurgen glared at him, recovered, then said, "Wow, brother of the month." Jens looked at him strangely, then added, "Shut up, Jurgen, you know nothing. Marit did all that. But she did worse to me. She beat me harder. She told me I was a failure like my father. She kept me awake all night with her tantrums. I... I held out as long as I could. Then I left. I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want anything to do with her anymore. Or with you either."

Willem, who had returned silently a moment earlier, remained at the back of the room. His eyes were red and his cheeks were wet. When he heard Jens speak, something inside him exploded.

He approached the bed, his voice broken by anger and tears.

"How the fuck could you leave your sister at the mercy of that crazy, possessed woman?! She was just a little girl! How could you just walk away and never look back?! I mean, at least call social services, the city hall, the school she went to, someone."

Jens didn't answer. He just lowered his head.

"Do you really think I didn't do anything?! I called the world, Marit and her damned money will solve everything!"

Willem looked at him worse and worse 

"I don't know, pff, take her away and go to the police?"

“At the time I thought it was impossible, then I started living and I just wanted to forget, but there wasn't a day that I didn't feel bad.” Willem came over to me and took my hand. I was about to pull away, but he nodded, he understood. I whispered a thank you without letting the words come out of my mouth.

He smiled and sat down next to me.

At that precise moment the door of the room opened again.

Marit Voss entered. 

She was dressed as usual: impeccable beige coat, red lipstick, blonde hair slicked back. But her eyes were darkened and she had the expression of someone who had just learned of the accident on television or from an anonymous call.

Everyone in the room stiffened.

Marit looked at the bed. She saw Lisa. She saw Jens. She saw the group of teenagers staring at her in horror.

For a moment he seemed on the verge of saying something cutting, the usual poisonous phrase.

Instead he remained silent.

The silence in the room was as heavy as lead.

Nobody spoke.

Only the rain had started beating against the window glass again.

Continues..

 Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

The hospital room door opened with a slow, almost theatrical creak.

Marit Voss entered as if she owned the department. Her beige coat was impeccable, her bright red lipstick bright, her blonde hair pulled back into a perfect bun. The smell of bleach and expensive perfume followed her like a trail. Her eyes scanned the room: Lisa in bed, Jens sitting next to her, the small group of teenagers around her, all still as statues.

Marit smiled. A cold, cutting smile, the one Lisa knew all too well.

"Is it true that you call yourself Femke?" she said in a disgusted voice, as if she were telling a joke. "Are you such a loser that you don't even want the name I gave you? Femke... what a ridiculous name. It sounds like one of those cartoon girls you watched as a kid while I mopped the floor."

No one spoke. The air in the room thickened.

Marit took a step forward, looking around with contempt.

"And who are these kindergarteners? Your new friends? How cute. Looks like you've finally found someone geekier than you."

Behind her, Jürgen's eyes moved silently, mouthing the word "What a slut." Jens and Lisa noticed it almost simultaneously. For a second, a flash of dark humor crossed their eyes. They both had to bite the inside of their cheeks to keep from laughing.

Marit noticed.

"Haha, that's hilarious," she said with venomous sarcasm. "What did you feel like doing yourself in again, little flower? Bleach wasn't enough? Did you have to make another scene? Always seeking attention, huh? Like when you were little and you'd throw tantrums over the slightest thing. Too bad you didn't disappear completely this time."

Willem leaped to his feet. His face was red with anger. He took two quick steps toward Marit, his hand already raised, ready to slap her.

Jürgen and Helga were faster. They grabbed his arms, pulling him back.

"Willem, no!" Jürgen whispered urgently. "Sorry, ma'am, he has Tourette's. Sometimes he can't control himself."

Willem understood immediately. He seized the opportunity. He began to tremble slightly, as if he had a sudden tic.

“Excuse me, ma’am… you fucking bitch… ah… ahaah, excuse me, ma’am… you fucking bitch…”

His voice was cracking, with exaggerated guttural sounds. It really sounded like he was having Tourette's.

The group burst into nervous laughter, almost liberating. Helena covered her mouth so as not to be heard. Alette turned her back, laughing; Willem knew how to put on a show. Helga had to bite her lip, but then she laughed heartily.

Marit looked at them with pure disgust.

“What a circus of failures,” he hissed.

"Now get out before I have security throw you out."

«Jurgen replied, That what she said»

Marit gave him a murderous look as he casually gave her the finger without even looking at her and walked out of the room.

The little group, still chuckling, filed out of the room one by one. Jürgen patted Willem on the shoulder as he dragged him out. Helga closed the door behind them with a soft click.

Only Lisa, Jens and Marit remained in the room.

As soon as the door closed, Marit changed completely. The fake smile disappeared. Her face contorted into a mask of pure rage.

Locked the room, Jens and Femke understood immediately, breathing hard, they knew it wouldn't be easy, she turns around

"You," he growled, approaching the bed. "You've always been my downfall."

With a swift movement, he grabbed Lisa by her curly hair, pulling it forcefully toward him. Lisa screamed in pain, trying to free herself. He punched her on the lips, hard, firm punches.

Jens jumped to his feet.

"Mom, leave her alone! You dirty little bastard! You dirty little bastard!"

Marit gave him a sharp slap on the cheek, and a kick in the crotch so hard that Jens's head snapped to the side. and he collapsed to the ground, panting.

"You're useless! Useless! Pieces of shit, like that failure of your father! Both of you! You've ruined my life since the day you were born!"

He continued to pull Lisa's hair, shouting insult after insult, while Lisa tried to defend herself with her free hand. Jens, recovering, tried to separate them, but Marit pushed him away with surprising force.

Almost thirty minutes of pure chaos passed.

Outside the room, the small group realized something was wrong. Helga, her hands shaking, opened Instagram and started a live feed. The title was simple: "Hospital emergency - help us." She pointed her phone at the closed door, filming the screams coming from the room.

Within minutes, the livestream exploded. Hundreds of views. Then thousands. Students at the school who knew Femke recognized Marit's voice and understood. They called the police. They gave the exact address of the hospital, the ward, and the room number.

Willem had picked up the phone to call the police

They were banging fists and kicking the door, the staff were looking for the keys to open the door, Willem was shouting at them but how could they leave that doors can be locked in a hospital, Jurgen was shouting that the police were about to arrive and to resist

The police arrived after a good half hour.

Two officers entered the room decisively. They saw Marit still holding Lisa by the hair, Jens with his cheek red from the slap, and he couldn't get up; something was broken, the bed in disarray.

“Ma’am, you must leave immediately,” the female officer ordered.

Marit spun around, still holding Lisa's hair.

"You have no proof, you damned people! She's my daughter, I can do whatever I want!" the policewoman took the gun in her hand and pointed it at him. "Maybe we didn't understand each other, you have to leave her and get down on the ground, 

»

Alette and Helga entered the scene just then, the phone still live.

"Oops... how careless. I left the live feed open," said Alette.

Helga was surprised, she thought she was the only one who had used the phone to get concrete evidence.

Alette took her cell phone from near the window. The live broadcast had already surpassed 40,000 viewers.

 

Marit, furious, spat in Alette's face.

"You said there's no evidence! Here we have it, and much more."

I started crying, but I was still too shocked to think, I wriggled away and pushed her away, getting back on the bed.

“You little bitch!” I thought it was directed at me, but instead it was directed at Alette

“Smile for the camera, Loser” Alette laughed heartily as Marit headbutted him in the face

At that precise moment, Alette's parents also entered, urgently called by Alette's older sister, Sophie. Alette's father, a robust man, saw the scene and without thinking twice, punched Marit in the face, and then grabbed her by the hair and began hitting her in the face relentlessly.

Marit fell backwards, with a split lip, and her mother took Alette in her arms.

“You’re still live, bitch,” he laughed as he pointed his phone at her, the views were skyrocketing, they had become millions.

The police also had to arrest him and Alette's mother, who had tried to defend her daughter by shouting at Marit.

Marit was led away in handcuffs, shouting insults at everyone.

Alette's live broadcast went viral in real time. Within hours, Lisa Voss's story was everywhere: television, social media, online newspapers. Everyone discovered who "Femke De Jong" really was: the thirty-year-old girl who had pretended to be fifteen to steal her childhood.

Alette, who dreamed of becoming a journalist, recorded everything: Lisa's confession, Marit's arrival, the insults, the violence, her father's punch. The live stream was shared millions of times.

At school, no one talked about Lisa's expulsion. The case became too big, too public. The administrators decided to let it go: it was better not to make the situation worse. Instead, the entire town split.

Some called her a “dangerous lunatic,” a “pathological liar,” and a “woman who deceived minors.”

Others called her “a fucking genius,” “a survivor who dared to take what was stolen from her,” “living proof that sometimes a second chance is all you have left.”

Lisa Voss had become a national sensation. A symbol. A debate about trauma, dysfunctional families, and a desperate desire for normalcy.

In the hospital bed, her head still throbbing and her wrist aching, Lisa closed her eyes.

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He only knew that, for the first time in his life, the truth had come out.

And no one could put her back in.

Continues...

 

 Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen 

Ten days had passed since the unmasking in the hospital.

On the morning of October 4, 2026, Femke received an email from the Scholengemeenschap Oost secretariat. The subject line was cold and impersonal:

Subject: Notice of Immediate Expulsion – Lisa Voss

Dear Mrs. Voss,

Following the events that occurred and the serious violations discovered (falsification of documents, academic fraud, and violation of compulsory education regulations), the School Board has decided on his immediate and irrevocable expulsion from our school.

We ask that you digitally sign the attached document by 6:00 PM today to confirm that you have read it.

She will no longer be allowed to access school premises or participate in any educational activities.

Best regards,

The Principal

Femke read the email three times. She didn't cry. She signed her email with a steady hand, closed her laptop, and sat on the bed for almost an hour, staring at the wall.

School was no longer the same.

The corridors of the Scholengemeenschap Oost, once filled with laughter, jostling, and lighthearted chatter, now felt like a minefield. Looks, whispers, sudden silences. Every time someone from the group passed by, someone would chuckle or crack a venomous joke.

Helena arrived every morning with puffy eyes. Her mother had received dozens of phone calls from other parents. "How did you not notice that woman was thirty?" they repeated. Helena had stopped responding to the messages. During recess, she hid in the bathroom so as not to run into anyone.

Jürgen had become silent and sullen. His parents had been called to school for an urgent meeting. They asked him if they suspected anything. Jürgen had said no, but inside he felt stupid and betrayed. In the evenings he would repeat: "How could I not understand anything?" Helga tried to console him, but she too was under pressure: some German classmates teased her, saying she had been fooled by a "crazy old woman."

Alette was the most devastated of all. She was the one who had posted the live broadcast from the hospital corridor. The video had gone viral in a matter of hours. Now everyone knew her as "the girl who filmed the scandal." Some called her a heroine. Others accused her of betraying a friend for fame and money. She had received threats on social media and messages full of insults. She had deleted all her profiles, but the damage was done.

Willem was angry. Angry at Femke for lying, angry at himself for falling in love, angry at the entire world. Every time someone said, "So, Willem, how does it feel to fuck an old lady?" he clenched his fists until his knuckles hurt. Jürgen and Helga had to physically restrain him to keep him from reacting.

The small group met every day after school in the backyard, out of sight of the others. That afternoon, they were all there, sitting on the cold concrete steps.

Helena was the first to speak, her voice breaking with tears:

"My parents want me to change schools. They say we've become a circus act here. They asked me if I knew anything. They asked me if I let her touch me. As if I were stupid."

Jürgen nodded, his gaze downcast.

"Mine too. The principal called me this morning. They've received fifteen more calls from concerned parents. They want to know if we were manipulated. If we knew something. I feel like an idiot."

Alette hugged her knees, her eyes shining.

"I can't take it anymore. Everyone stops me in the hallways. They ask me if it's true that Femke drank the bleach. They ask me if she told me everything. I feel used. I feel dirty."

Willem, sitting one step below, had red eyes with anger and pain.

"I can't sleep. Every night I think of her laughing with us, running in the gym, telling us she was one of us... and yet she was thirty. I feel betrayed. I feel like an idiot."

Helga was the only one who hadn't spoken yet. She looked at the gray sky above them, her expression serious.

"We need to talk to her," she said finally, softly but firmly. "We can't go on like this. We need to tell her what's happening at school. We need to tell her that because of her lie, our lives have become hell."

Everyone nodded silently.

The next day, after class, the group showed up at Femke's apartment. Els opened the door. She could tell from their looks that it wasn't a social visit.

“He’s in his room,” he simply said, letting them in.

Femke was sitting on the bed, her curly hair loose and her eyes tired. When she saw them all come in together, she immediately understood.

“You’re here to tell me you hate me,” he said in a low voice.

Helena shook her head.

"No. We're here because school has become hell. Bullies make fun of Willem every day. They say horrible things. Parents call constantly. Teachers look at us strangely. The newspapers keep writing about us. Alette put the live broadcast online, and now everyone knows everything."

Alette looked down, filled with guilt.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean for it to end like this. I just wanted to help... but it's turned into a circus."

Willem took a step forward, his voice shaking with anger and pain.

"I... I defended you. I fought with half the school over you. You made me fall in love with someone who didn't exist. How the fuck can I trust anyone again?" Willem's eyes were shining.

Femke was silent for a long moment. Then she spoke, in the soft, high-pitched voice everyone knew well by now.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted... to live. For once in my life, I wanted to be normal. I didn't want your pity. I didn't want you to look at me like the girl who attempted suicide with bleach. I just wanted to laugh with you, run, have friends. I was wrong. I was so wrong."

Jürgen, who had remained silent until then, spoke in a firm voice.

"We know you were sick. We know your mother is a monster. But that doesn't change the fact that you lied to all of us for months. You pretended to be one of us. You pretended to be our age."

Helga added, sweetly:

"But… we also understand why you did it. We don't hate you, Femke. Or Lisa. Whatever you want to call yourself. But we have to find a way to move forward. Together."

Femke nodded slowly. Her eyes were shining.

"Thank you. I don't deserve your understanding... but thank you."

The group stayed with her for nearly two hours. They talked. They cried. They hugged. For the first time since the unmasking, they seemed like a group again.

Outside Femke's window, Amsterdam continued to flow as usual. But inside that room, something fragile was beginning to mend.

Continues...

 Chapter Twenty

 

Chapter Twenty

Fifteen days had passed since Alette's hospital unmasking and viral video. The story of Lisa Voss/Femke De Jong had invaded every newscast, every news site, every social media platform in the Netherlands and beyond. The entire country was divided: some called her a crazy liar, some called her a tragic genius, some saw in her the symbol of unresolved trauma.

A major national broadcaster had secured exclusive rights to a series of interviews. The program's title was simple and brutal: "Lisa Voss's Second Chance."

 

The first interview was dedicated to the group of boys.

Helena, Jürgen, Willem, Helga, and Alette sat on a white sofa in a coldly lit studio. They all looked smaller, more fragile under the spotlight.

Helena spoke first, her voice shaking:

At first, we thought she was just a shy girl. She was kind, she laughed with us, she helped us with our homework. We never suspected anything. When we found out she was thirty… I felt betrayed. But above all, I felt stupid. How could I not have noticed?

Jürgen, sitting next to her, added in a harsher tone:

"I saw her as a little sister. I protected her. When Willem made a move on her, I got in the way. And now I find out she's fifteen years older than me. I feel like a fool. I feel like an idiot."

Willem's eyes were shining. He spoke with difficulty:

"I... I fell in love. Really. I brought her chocolates, hugged her, told her I liked her. And she was thirty. I feel dirty. I feel betrayed. But at the same time... when I think about everything she told us about her mother, I want to cry. I don't know what to feel anymore."

Helga was the only one to maintain a certain calm:

"I think Lisa was suffering terribly. I don't condone lying, but I understand why. She just wanted to be normal for a few months. She wanted the childhood she never had. I don't hate her. I'm just very sad."

Alette, with a broken voice, added:

"I was the one who put the live broadcast online. I thought I'd help... instead, I made everything worse. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

 

Then it was Femke's (Lisa) turn alone.

She was sitting on a black chair, her curly hair loose to her mid-back, her gaze tired but steady. She was wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt, the same one Els had given her.

The journalist asked her:

"Why did he do it?"

Lisa answered in a soft, high-pitched voice, the voice that everyone now recognized:

Because I didn't want to be Lisa Voss anymore. I wanted to be someone who hadn't had all that pain happen to her. I wanted to laugh for no reason. I wanted to have friends. I wanted to run without hating my body. I wanted fifteen real years. I stole them. I know it's wrong. But for those months... I was happy.

When asked about Marit, Lisa looked down.

My mother destroyed me. Every day. With words, with beatings, with bleach. She made me hate myself. I tried to die twice because of her. I don't forgive her. I can't.

 

Jens was interviewed separately.

He sat stiffly, wearing a dark jacket and looking down.

"I abandoned my sister when she was ten. I know. I'm not proud of what I did. But that house was hell. Marit destroyed everything. I ran away for my life. I thought Lisa was stronger... or maybe I just wanted to believe that. I was wrong."

When asked if he would try to get closer to Lisa, Jens shook his head.

"Not now. Maybe someday. But not now."

 

Els was interviewed in her kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand.

"When I discovered the truth, I wasn't surprised. I knew Femke was hiding something serious. But I chose to help her anyway. Because that girl needed a mother. And I needed to be a mother again."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Lisa is not a criminal. She's a survivor. And I'm proud of her."

 

The last interview was the most difficult: Marit Voss.

She was sitting in a bare room in the psychiatric hospital, handcuffed, with two nurses at her back. Her eyes were glassy, ​​clouded by the strong tranquilizers. She seemed almost in a vegetative state. She spoke slowly, in a monotone voice.

The journalist asked her:

“Mrs. Voss, what do you think of what you did to your daughter?”

Marit remained silent for almost thirty seconds. Then she replied, with a cold half-smile:

"I just tried to raise her well. She's always been weak. Like her father. Like her brother."

When asked about her brother who committed suicide at 13, Marit didn't bat an eyelid.

"She was fragile. Like Lisa. I was just trying to make them strong."

The journalist insisted:

“Her parents said she beat her mother and that’s why they disappeared after Jens was born.”

Marit laughed softly, a hollow sound.

"My parents were weak. Everyone is weak."

Then, for the first time, a tear rolled down her cheek, but her expression remained blank.

"My brother... he shouldn't have died. But he was weak too."

The interview ended there. Marit was taken back to her cell without resistance.

 

Marit's parents were interviewed at an undisclosed location. They were two frightened elderly men, speaking in low voices.

The mother said, crying:

"Marit was violent even as a child. She hit me, she hit her brother.

Her brother was twelve when he took the neighbor's medicine. Her sister had driven him to despair. When Jens was born, we tried to resist. But after two years, we realized we had to leave for our own safety. We abandoned our daughter... but we didn't know what else to do."

The father added:

"We failed as parents. But Marit... Marit was unmanageable. We thought she'd get better as she grew older. Instead, she got worse."

When asked why they hadn't called social services, they replied:

"We were scared. Marit threatened to kill herself if we spoke out. We were terrified. She was our only daughter, you understand," the journalist said, disgusted.

“It’s a shame that other people have suffered because of your lack of judgment. Go away, we’re done here.” She waved him away angrily.

"People without a backbone" 

he closed the notebook.

At the end of the documentary, the journalist concluded with these words:

Lisa Voss lied. She deceived an entire school. She lived a double life. But perhaps, for the first time, she truly lived. How many people can say they've done that?

And while the country is divided between those who condemn it and those who understand it, one thing is certain:

his story is not just that of a lie.

It's the story of a girl who fought with all her strength to get back what had been stolen from her: a childhood, a Second Chance."

Continues...

 Chapter Twenty-One

 

Chapter Twenty-One

Two weeks after the unmasking, Femke and Jens found themselves at the door of an elegant apartment in the Jordaan neighborhood. Marit was still hospitalized in a psychiatric hospital, and the authorities had given them the keys, authorizing them to take their property.

Jens inserted the key into the lock. The door opened with a soft click.

As soon as they entered, the smell hit them like a punch in the stomach.

Bleach.

Strong. Overwhelming. Suffocating. The same smell that had accompanied their entire childhood.

Femke felt like she was going to vomit. Jens clenched his jaw.

"That crazy woman..." he muttered. "Even now that she's gone, she manages to make us feel at home."

The apartment was immaculate. Polished floors, white furniture, perfectly ironed curtains. Everything was meticulously tidy, as if Marit had spent the last few weeks obsessively cleaning before being moved out.

They moved in silence.

They entered Jens's room first. It was exactly as he'd left it fifteen years earlier: posters of football players on the walls, an old computer, a dusty video game console. Femke sat on the edge of the bed while Jens turned on the PlayStation 2, still plugged in.

He inserted an old Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas disc.

For a few minutes they played in silence, sitting next to each other like they had when they were children. Jens drove, Femke shot.

At one point Jens paused the game.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, without looking at her. "For leaving you alone with her. I was a coward. I was afraid I'd go crazy, too."

Femke was silent for a few seconds, then replied:

"I forgive you. I hated you too for years. But now I understand. No one should live in that house. Not even you."

Jens swallowed.

"We'll never be apart again, okay? No matter what happens. It's just the two of us left."

Femke nodded, her eyes shining.

"Never again."

They stayed like that for a while longer, playing the old video game, laughing every now and then at the absurd scenes, as if they were making up for all the lost years.

Then they got up and continued their exploration.

They entered Marit's room. It was perfect. The bed was made with military precision, the closet full of designer clothes still with the tags, the drawers neatly organized, the jewelry neatly arranged. It looked like the room of someone who had never had a problem in her life.

They took everything of value: luxury handbags, watches, necklaces, designer clothes. They filled two large suitcases. They would sell everything online. Every euro would be split in half.

At the bottom of a hidden drawer, Jens found a yellowed envelope. Inside was a will handwritten by his father, dated a few months before he disappeared.

The document clearly stated that, upon their parents' death, the luxury apartment in the Jordaan would pass directly to their two children, Jens and Lisa Voss. Their father understood that Marit would try to take everything.

Jens read the document aloud. Femke remained silent.

“So this house… is ours,” he said finally.

Jens nodded.

"We're putting it up for sale tomorrow. Four million euros. Two each. We deserve it."

They took everything they owned: old photos, toys, childhood clothes, school notebooks. They loaded everything into the car and took their belongings to their respective homes.

Before leaving, Femke stopped on the threshold of the house for the last time.

He looked down the pristine hallway, the smell of bleach still lingering in the air.

“We’re never coming back here,” he said softly.

Jens put a hand on her shoulder.

"No. This isn't our home anymore. It never was."

They closed the door behind them.

As they descended the stairs, Femke felt something melt inside her chest. It wasn't happiness. It was relief. It was the feeling of finally having closed a chapter that had been too long and painful.

The second chance was no longer a lie.

It was becoming reality.

Continues...

 

 Chapter Twenty-Two (FINAL)

 Chapter Twenty-Two (FINAL)

Marit Voss ended up in a psychiatric hospital. She had been diagnosed with severe narcissistic personality disorder with borderline traits, bipolar elements, and strong psychopathic characteristics. After her arrest and trial, her mental condition rapidly deteriorated. She was now living in a closed facility, under heavy medication, isolated from the outside world.

It was March 14, 2027.

Exactly one year to the day after the electric bicycle hit Femke in front of Café The Minds.

The spring sun was timidly filtering through the windows of the Scholengemeenschap Oost gym. Lisa Voss—now legally Femke de Jong—stood at center court, a whistle around her neck, a black tracksuit, and curly hair pulled back in a high ponytail that still reached her mid-back. At 32, she had become the school's full-time physical education teacher.

The principal, a man in his sixties with a gray mustache and a slightly worried look, had called her into his office three months earlier. He had been reluctant.

"Ms. de Jong... or Voss... or whatever you prefer to be called," he said, drumming his fingers on the desk. "Your story is known to everyone. The lie, the trial, the viral video. Many parents were against it. But after seeing how you treat the kids... and after talking to Els... I've decided to give you the job."

Then he lowered his voice, almost to a whisper.

"You were very brave. I respect you. But I also fear you."

Femke laughed softly, signed the contract and replied:

"Good. At least he knows who he's dealing with." Jokingly

Now, a year later, there she was, leading a volleyball lesson for Class 1V4 – the same class where she had pretended to be one of them.

"Come on, move! Don't let the ball hit you, let the ball hit you!" he shouted, clapping his hands.

Jürgen, who was now in third grade, ran past her and winked at her.

"Go, big sister! Or do I have to call you old lady now?"

Femke threw a sponge ball at his back, laughing.

“Keep it up and I’ll make you run twenty laps around the course, Jürgen Müller.”

Across the court, Helga laughed as she helped a teammate serve. Willem, meanwhile, was on the bench volunteering as a service assistant. Every now and then, he glanced at Femke, but they were no longer the looks of a boy in love. They were looks of deep, almost brotherly affection.

Nine months earlier, on a drunken night out after the end of the school year, Helga and Willem had made love. Not out of love, but out of loneliness and too much alcohol. Nine months later, a baby girl was born. They named her Femke.

They weren't engaged. They didn't love each other in that sense. They were just two seventeen-year-olds who had decided to take responsibility together. Co-parents. Friends. Nothing more.

Willem had gotten over his crush on Femke. Or rather, on Lisa. He had understood that the one he had loved was a version of her that no longer existed. Now he looked at her with respect, almost tenderness. Every now and then, to lighten the mood, he still pretended to have Tourette's.

Like at that moment.

As Femke passed by the bench, Willem jumped up and began to shake.

“Br-br-good teacher… tr-tr-slut… oh no sorry, good… w-w-what a pussy… haha ​​sorry!”

Femke burst out laughing, slapping him on the back of the head.

“Willem, stop it or I’ll send you running with the first years.”

Everyone around laughed. It had become their internal ritual, rare but always effective in lightening the mood.

After class, the group gathered as usual at Café The Minds. It had become a sacred habit: every Saturday afternoon, at 4:00 PM sharp, they met there. Mark Rodriguez, the Spanish man who worked at the café, greeted them with a smile.

"Here's my favorite team!"

He served them their usual smoothies and stopped for a moment in front of Femke.

“So, Professor de Jong… still single or have you finally found someone your own age?”

Femke laughed.

“Mark, stop it.”

He threw up his hands, laughing.

“Oh, but you’re not 15, then no… haha, I was joking.”

Then, with a more serious tone and a sweet smile:

“Anyway… I knew who you were from the start.”

Everyone at the table fell silent.

Mark continued:

"Maybe you don't remember me, but in middle school we used to eat pizza together on Fridays. I was the one with braces. You called me 'Big Tooth.'"

Femke opened her eyes wide.

"Oh right… Big Tooth! I mean… was that you?"

Mark nodded.

"I knew you were Lisa Voss, not Femke. What I didn't know was that you were pretending to be a fifteen-year-old. Thanks to Alette's video, we all found out."

Alette's name brought a heavy silence.

Alette was no longer part of the group. After the viral video, she had made a lot of money selling interviews, photos, and details of the story. She even wrote a book called Second Chance. No one had even considered buying it, but everyone was curious enough. However, everything stopped when they realized that Alette had transformed Lisa's pain into her own content. Willem especially had never forgiven her for that betrayal. Every time she was mentioned, his face would harden.

Mark changed the subject, sensing the tension.

“Anyway… welcome to the adult world, Professor.”

The evening continued peacefully. They laughed, joked, and recalled anecdotes. Jens arrived later, carrying little Femke in his baby carrier.

Jens and Alette's sister had married six months earlier and had recently become little Femke's godmother and godfather, albeit unofficially, because Helga and Willem hadn't married. They held a small ceremony at home. Jens wanted Femke to have a happy and balanced life, something he and his little sister hadn't had.

By now he had also changed his last name: Jens de Jong. He wanted nothing more to do with "Voss."

Els joined them around 7:00 PM. She had become everyone's mother. She hugged Jens like a son, kissed him on the forehead, and picked up little Femke.

"How is my granddaughter?"

Jens hugged her tightly.

"Thank you, Els. Thank you for being a mother to my little sister when I wasn't around."

Els smiled, her eyes shining.

"What you did is absurd, Femke. But I think it's everyone's dream to have a second chance."

The group stayed at the café until late. Around 11:00 PM, some drunk, noisy English tourists entered and started making a racket, knocking over glasses and shouting.

Mark, behind the counter, lost his patience and shouted loudly:

«Kanker toeristen! Donder op!»

The tourists didn't understand the words, but the tone was crystal clear. They laughed stupidly and staggered out.

The group burst into laughter.

The evening was coming to a close. They decided to wait for Mark after the club closed. They all went for fries at a bar near Leidseplein called Saloon. Years earlier, it had burned down completely; now everything was different, but the sign was the same, with the two "O"s still off.

Mark offered everyone dinner and drinks. He sat down next to Femke, gently took her hand, and kissed the back of it tenderly. Femke looked at him for a long moment, then leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

It was a tender, shy kiss, but true. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Femke felt a strange warmth in her chest, something she hadn't felt in a long time. Mark smiled against her lips, surprised but happy.

Everyone around the table was silent for a second, then exploded in applause, laughter, and banging their fists on the table.

“Finally!” Jürgen shouted, laughing.

Helga clapped her hands, her eyes shining with emotion. Willem smiled, albeit with a hint of melancholy, but it was a sincere smile. Helena whistled loudly.

Femke and Mark couldn't stop laughing, embarrassed but visibly happy.

Femke looked out the window. The sky was dark, but the lights of Amsterdam shone across the canal, reflecting on the water like fallen stars.

He thought about everything that had happened.

To the lie. To the pain. To the second chance she'd grabbed tooth and nail.

And he thought that, despite everything, it had been worth it.

Because sometimes life doesn't give you a second chance.

Sometimes you have to steal it.

And then learn to deserve it and hold on to it very tightly.

 

 

END