Daniel leaves for his football match, and I take the chance to write before starting dinner. I called my mother and left Harry a text message, which was left unanswered.

At five, Daniel knocks on my door. He's wearing a football jersey and shorts that are muddy. In fact, his face is also muddy. Was he playing football or mud war?

"Sorry for my appearance, but I was wondering if you wanted to start your stew about now."

I nod and grab my things, and we both make our way up to his apartment.

Daniel's place is larger than mine. The door opens to a kitchenette and a living/dining room that leads to a massive outdoor area. Now I understand why he's on this floor, rather than in my apartment. He has the most impressive view of a beautiful wheat field.

Daniel shows me everything in the kitchen area. I can smell the sweat mixed with his aftershave on him. A combination I never thought I would say it's alluring and yet it befits him.

"I'll just grab a shower quickly."

I nod and put my effort into starting the stew, which isn't really a complicated affair. Just throw some veggies and the meat together with some stock and let it slow cook for a few hours.

I hear the shower turn on.

"There's some white wine in the fridge. Pour yourself some," he shouts from inside.

"I will."

Mechanically, I chop the vegetables and put them in the pot. I open the fridge and take the half empty bottle of white and pour it into a glass, before stirring the meat and mixing it with the veggies.

"Something smells yummy."

I turn around and see Daniel topless, with a t-shirt in his hand, while rubbing his hair with a small bath towel. I turn back to face the stove. My heart races.

He walks closer to me and peaks at the food. He takes a deep inhale. His proximity to me makes my legs weak. He walks to the fridge, where he retrieves a beer.

"Best that you abstain from beer tonight."

"I agree." I smile at his little dig at my previous state.

He opens the bottle with a flicker of his thumb. The cap drops to the open rubbish bin with an impressive precision.

"Do you want something to snack while dinner is getting ready?" He opens a kitchen cabinet and takes a packet of crisps. "Chips?" he asks, holding it.

"Crisps. We call chips to the ones that go in the oven."

He stares at me, amused. "Crisps?" He repeats it and opens the packet.

"I have nothing here to eat except snacks. That I have plenty, and alcohol."

"You don't cook?"

"Live near mom, she cooks for me."

I open my mouth in shock. "Are you seriously telling me that a grown ass man eats at his parents every night?"

He ponders for a second. "Most nights. Sometimes she leaves food here."

I gasp, and he laughs.

"Prost."

I clink my glass with his bottle. "Prost."

"If you don't cook, how did you survive when you were in Berlin?"

This is not an innocent question.

"Ada did most of the cooking."

There it was.

"My girlfriend," he says, as if to jump start my memory.

I give a small nod and keep my eyes trailed on the cooking stew. I keep stirring the pot, although it's completely unnecessary, just to avoid his burning gaze on me.

"How did you guys meet?" I probe.

He leans on the counter. "She's from here. We've been together since we've been sixteen. It's ten years in three months."

I stop stirring at the disclosure. "Wow, that's a long time."

I frown and wonder if Harry and I would make it that long. I steal a glance at the phone that sits still next to me. For us to make it for ten years, we first need to hold a conversation that doesn't sum itself up to sporadic text messages. So, yeah, I guess that is a no.

"That's common. At least around here." He says it almost as if he's trying to justify himself to me.

"But Gunther and Jonas are not in long-term relationships like you are," I rebut.

He smirks. "They are the two odd ones out. When you get to meet some of my other friends, especially the ones still living here, you'll see. Some of my best friends in the world are married. A few even expecting their first kid."

I stop stirring for a minute, trying to take in all the information. I want to ask more, but I fear that the curiosity may kill Natalie. Nonetheless, my curious mouth still beats me to the punch.

"Does that mean you'll be proposing soon?"

He chokes a little at my question. He clears his throat. "Wrong pipe." He offers me a smile but doesn't really reach his eyes. He looks to his feet and then back at me. "We've been having that conversation more lately. I guess it's inevitable."

"It's inevitable?"

Daniel frowns at my remark.

"Are you talking about marrying someone you love or paying or taxes?"

Daniel chuckles. "Only death and taxes are inevitable... I chose my words poorly."

I stare at him. It feels like there's something more there. The choice of the word was not on purpose, but that doesn't mean is the truth. My heart breaks a little at his confession. It's not the most heartfelt declaration of love for another, but it's a declaration of intent to promise himself to another. A promise that feels more like a prison sentence than a vow to cherish someone else for as both you would like to.

He stares at me for a beat with a curiosity peaking behind his eyes. "What about your boyfriend? What's his name?"

"Harry, a little over 2 years. We met at university, took some classes together, guess found some commonalities somewhere."

"Is he the one?"

"I don't think so... I mean, we barely talk as it is now. It would be the most silent marriage in history..."

I stop when I realise I'm rambling. Daniel stares but doesn't enquire further. I feel that neither of us wants to continue a discussion about our respective significant others.

He gulps the rest of his beer and looks at me with an open smile. "Let's choose the movie to watch tonight."

I turn down the flames on the gas stove and take my wine glass with me. He leads me inside and we turn to a barely lit room. Daniel turns the light on and walks over to a shelf that has a collection of books and movies, and a desk. This is clearly his study. However, the painting next to the bookshelf captures my attention. It's a picture of a young man with a trimmed beard and a narrow face. He has similar eyes to Daniel, but his hair is dark brown, in contrast to Daniel's blonde locks.

"This is a beautiful painting."

I stare at the painting and inspect its use of colour and strokes.

"The strokes are beautiful. Perhaps the use of colour is too excessive and a bit too bold, but..."

Daniel walks over to me, curious. "But?"

I look at it in amazement. "There's an unrequited emotion to the portray."

"You paint?"

I blush. "I cannot paint to save my life."

He chuckles at the remark. "But you have clearly an artistic eye. I've never seen someone talk about strokes and the use of colour that is not an artist."

"My mother works at an art gallery and dabbles in painting herself. I grew up with artists around me."

Daniel is unconvinced, and I circle around him and make my way to the bookshelf. I turn around and see he expects an answer. Like he can see through me somehow.

"I'm not gifted enough to pain. I write, sometimes. That's the extent of my talent."

Daniel stares at my features mindfully, and then flashes a grin. "The little brown notebook! I've seen you writing in your little book. What do you write?"

I don't know if I should be embarrassed by his observant eyes or flattered. "Poems, short stories, nonsense really." I stutter.

"It's important to you." It's one of those affirmations that sound like a whispered question.

Well, considering I'm in Germany to get an opportunity for creative writing, I would say it's really important. But I keep silent and I keep my eyes on the portrait.

"It is important?" He repeats in a clear question form this time around.

"Yes, it is. I only came to Germany because I'm waiting for some creative writing opportunities to come through. Got this opportunity, but it's just a placeholder until I get my big break. So here I am."

I continue staring at the painting, avoiding his stare.

"I thought you were a marketing major?" he asks.

"I am. That's my back-up. Got to have a back-up in case your dreams don't come true."

Daniel leaves my side and walks over to the chair and slumps dishearten.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Nothing," he responds with a frosty glare.

His mood shifted as quickly as a sandstorm appears in the desert. I'm not sure if I should continue probing, but my curiosity decides against my will again.

"Who is he? In the painting?"

Daniel ponders for the moment my question. Almost as if analysing If I was worthy of the answer.

"My brother," he finally says.

"He's handsome." I reply.

He stares at the painting, a hint of grief flashing across his face.

"He's dead," Daniel gets up. "Choose the movie."

I freeze. "I'm so sorry."

Daniel rubs his face, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

"It's fine. Just choose the movie."

I nod and turn one last time to the painting. It is so hauntingly beautiful that it feels my eyes can't keep away from it. And then it's when I notice... in the right-hand bottom corner, the artist's initials. D.S.

"You're the artist, D.S., Daniel Schmidt..." I mutter. "You painted this?"

His face contorts in anger. "Can you stop with all the questions and just chose the damn movie!"

I stare at him and his outburst and take a random movie from the shelf and walk back to the kitchen side. I walk over to the stove and stir the pot one more time before turning it off. His tone of voice shook my core.

I feel his presence back in the room. He barely moves.

"Dinner is ready."

"Oh, that's great." His voice sounds remorseful.

I look at the food that still boils inside the pot and snatch my apartment keys in a swift move.

"Goodnight." And walk out of the apartment with tears in my eyes.

I run down the stairs, and before I reach the last set of ladders. I feel a hand pulling me.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," he repeats it.

I stop, frozen by his words.

"Please, let's go back up. I shouldn't have..." the remorse in his voice is clear.

I sigh and nod before following him silently. He shouldn't have, but I should have reigned in my curiosity.

Once inside, he walks to the kitchen counter where his beer bottle still stands and drowns his pain with the liquid inside.

"I'm the painter. But I don't paint anymore."

"We don't have to talk about it. I shouldn't have pushed you." My hand finds his. "I'm sorry I asked about your brother and I'm sorry I pressed about the painting. I just find you insanely talented."

He rubs my hand softly, tracing his fingers across the back of my hand, making concentric circles. "I'm not a talented painter, besides it was just a hobby, child's play."

I hear his words and can't believe what he says. I sigh and put on a brave face, although his harsh tone still rings in my ears.

"Shall we eat?" I ask.

"Yes," he responds softly.

We eat in silence. The eerie moment still lingering on us both.

"This is delicious," he says with his eyes on me, scrutinising me.

I hum in response, not lifting my eyes from my plate.

"Are we really going to let this ruin the day?"

"I suppose not. I'm just mad at myself. Clearly you stopped painting when your brother died, and I kept pushing it. I'm sorry. I'm an ass."

"I didn't stop painting when my brother died. I stopped painting because it was a fantasy."

I place my fork and knife on the dinner plate. I look at his clear eyes. "Do you really believe that pursuing your passion, what you're good at, is a fantasy?"

He takes another bite from the food. "It is when it's something where there are almost zero chances of succeeding."

"Wow, I didn't ping you as the materialistic type."

"I'm not. I just want to pay my bills. Painting won't."

"You're too good. It's a waste of talent."

I continue to eat, slightly annoyed at the where the conversation is heading. If he thinks painting is pointless, then what will he say about me and my dream pursuit?

"Can I read it?" unexpectedly he asks.

I shake my head in response. "I don't show my writing to no one."

Daniel snorts. "No one? Not your mother? Or Harry?" He says his name poignantly.

"No one," I repeat.

"I showed you my painting."

"I stumbled on your painting and we fought over it. You wouldn't have told me it was yours otherwise."

He takes another bite. "But, I have and I did. I could have lied."

"You don't believe in dreams, remember?"

"Natalie?" His tone forces me to look up at him. "Show it to me. I want to read your words."