I. No Start. No End.
NOA
I don't remember when the night started.
It never does with me.
No start.
No end I can point to.
Berlin just bleeds into itself, one endless smear of neon and shadow, and I'm always already in it.
Except—it isn't even dark.
Light leaks through the curtains anyway—thin, unwanted, stubborn. The kind that means the day already exists whether I want it to or not.
Just keeps happening, like some fucked-up heartbeat that won't quit.
Fuck.
I'm not asleep, not awake.
Just existing in that numb in-between, body heavy on the sagging mattress, sheets twisted around my legs, keeping me where I am.
My apartment's a black hole of a place—drawings, walls scarred with old posters peeling at the edges, the kind of faded band flyers from shows I barely remember attending.
The light's off, curtains sealed shut, but my eyes are cracked open, staring at the ceiling cracks that look like veins.
My head throbs from yesterday's haze—
or was it the day before?
Time's a blur, and honestly—
who gives a shit?
Fuck this.
I think, rolling over and kicking the sheets off.
The air hits my skin, cool, smelling like sweat and smoke.
I sit up slow, rubbing my eyes, feeling the grit of last night's mascara and eyeliner flaking under my fingers.
My hands find the cigarette pack before I fully register moving.
The first drag tastes like nothing important.
I watch the smoke leave my mouth like it belongs to someone else.
I scoot down to the edge of the bed for a moment like I'm waiting for instructions I never intend to follow.
My reflection in the cracked mirror across the room stares back—dark circles like bruises, hair a tangled mess of black waves that I haven't bothered to brush in days.
I'm wearing the same ripped tank top and shorts from...whenever.
No bra, no underwear.
Comfort in my discomfort.
My phone is somewhere nearby, buzzing once, then again, then forgotten.
I don't check it.
I don't really check anything.
Just take another drag.
Slow inhale.
Smoke fills the space between thoughts.
The pull hits me then, that itch under my skin, the city's whisper saying move.
I don't decide.
I just do.
Pulling on jeans, tank clinging to my chest.
The floor's sticky from whatever spilled last time I bothered to drink here, probably vodka mixed with whatever pills I could scrounge.
Clothes scattered like casualties: my baggy jeans crumpled by the bed, t-shirt slung over the chair that's missing a leg and leans like it's drunk.
You too, huh?
I lacy my boots up quick, heavy soles thudding against the floor as I grab my keys, my skateboard from the corner, the wheels worn smooth from too many days like this.
It's the only thing that feels solid in my hands.
I sling a jacket over my shoulders—faded gray, hood up to hide my face—loose and unzipped, letting it flap open to catch the cool air.
And I head out.
The door creaks shut behind me, locking with a click that echoes in the empty stairwell that smells like cigarettes and forgotten takeout.
The stairs blur under my feet, two at a time, muscle memory doing the work.
Outside, Berlin's alive in its own way—air thick with exhaust.
I step into it, the city's pulse syncing with my own uneven heartbeat.
The pavement's wet, rain-slick, reflecting the garish lights from kebab shops and dive bars.
I drift, no destination, just the movement of my steps carrying me deeper.
But fuck walking—
I drop the board and push off, the wheels hitting pavement with a sound I trust more than people.
It becomes rhythm.
Direction.
The city doesn't feel like a place—just something to move through, each ollie and grind putting more distance between me and that suffocating apartment.
I take the underpass first, the concrete echoing with the scrape of my board, graffiti exploding in colors that blur as I speed through—tags of anarchist symbols, crude dicks, and names I don't recognize.
Then the bridge over the canal, water below black and oily, reflecting the dull gray sky in fractured streaks.
A group of punks huddle under it, passing a joint, their piercings glinting as they laugh at some inside joke.
One of them, a girl with a mullet dyed electric blue and a ring through her lip, eyes me as I whiz by.
"Oi! slow down." she calls, but I don't stop.
Corner store next—the kind with flickering fluorescent lights and shelves stocked with off-brand booze and cigarettes.
I kickflip over a puddle, board clattering against the curb as I pull up.
Inside, the air's thick with the smell of stale coffee and curry from the microwave.
The clerk's an old Turkish guy, mustache like a broom, watching me with that wary look all shopkeepers give people like me.
I snag a pack of smokes—Marlboros, the red ones—and toss a few crumpled euros on the counter.
"Stimmt so,"
I mutter, already heading out.
He grunts something in German, but I don't catch it.
Don't care.
I let it close on him.
Next, Im down the alley that smells like metal and rain, narrow and choked with overflowing dumpsters.
I pass people without registering them as separate from the background.
Past the tourists gawking at the Wall remnants, into the alleys where the real pulse throbs.
They're just movement with faces—a couple arguing in slurred whispers, the guy shoving her against the wall; a homeless dude curled up in a sleeping bag, muttering to himself; some club kid stumbling out of a side door, pupils blown wide from whatever he's on.
Berlin's alive, alright, but it's a feral kind of alive, all teeth and no mercy.
Someone calls something after me, again—
I don't turn.
I never turn for that kind of sound.
There's a stretch near the river where I always slow down.
Not because I like it.
Because my body remembers it before I do.
My hand brushes my pocket.
Empty.
Except for lint, cash, stash, and the pack of smokes.
Gonna need something sharper tonight.
I push off again, cutting away from the water—back into the streets where everything closes in.
Noise comes back first.
Then the lights.
I spot him before he spots me.
A guy—some twitchy fuck with a shaved head and a neck tattoo of a snarling wolf—his eyes darting like he's expecting cops to drop from the sky.
I know his type—won't gut you today...but might tomorrow.
We don't talk much.
Just a nod.
Quick, clean.
A hand exchange happens.
Transfer.
I pass him what I came with first—small, wrapped tight, not mine to keep.
Paper.
Small bag.
Folded promise.
He checks it fast.
Doesn't linger.
Doesn't need to.
He presses cash into my hand after.
Not a lot.
Just enough to make it even.
The money disappears into my pocket before I even look at it.
The coke doesn't.
That—
I check.
Quick.
Subtle.
Thumb pressing the fold like I'm confirming something more than just weight.
It's enough.
What I get—a small fold paper packet, crisp edges hiding white powder—coke, pure enough to bite.
And a tiny vial, liquid clear as tears—GHB, the liquid X that melts boundaries.
No drama, no bullshit cinematic stare-down.
He mutters something—half a sentence, half a laugh, a joke about the rain fucking up his night.
I don't laugh.
Just shoot him a look, flat, dead-eyed, the kind that says I don't give a shit, already stepping back, turning, shoulders loose, gone in the way I do.
Not fast.
Just...done.
Like nothing happened.
And I melt back into the crowd.
My phone buzzes before I make it to the end of the block.
I let it buzz once.
Twice.
Then pull it out.
$ATCHA
—Yo, Noa!
—You coming tonight or what?
—Or you busy haunting the streets like usual.
A small breath leaves my nose.
Somewhat a laugh.
I type with one hand, walking.
—Where?
The reply comes before the screen even dims.
—Don't act new
—Same place.
—Louder tonight.
I glance up, like the answer might be written somewhere in the streetlights.
It's not.
But I know.
I always know.
—Send pin.
A pause.
Three dots.
Gone.
Back again.
Then—
—Lazy.
—(location shared)
—Come Kotti.
—And don't make me find your ass.
I don't respond.
Just shake my head.
Pocketing the phone and keep moving.
Off on my board again.
The deal went down smooth as fuck in that dingy alley off Oranienstraße—the kind of spot where the graffiti tags bleed into each other like old wounds.
The streets open up a little here.
Not quieter.
Just...wider.
Wheels crack over uneven pavement.
Push.
Glide.
Push.
A car passes too close.
I don't flinch.
Someone laughs across the street—sharp, sudden, gone just as quick.
Music leaks out of somewhere I don't see.
Bass first.
Always bass.
The air smells like smoke and something fried.
Oil.
Meat.
Sweet, burnt edges.
I cut past a group standing outside a späti.
They barely look up.
I slow just slightly turning the corner—not thinking about it—muscle memory
And then—
I see him.
Sacha.
He's where he said he'd be—half in shadow, half in light, like he didn't pick either.
Leaning against a low wall, cigarette burning down faster than he's smoking it.
his board tucked under one arm like an extension of his lanky frame.
He's got this wild mop of dark curls that always looks like he just rolled out of a fight or a fuck—probably both—and eyes that sparkle with whatever chaos he's chasing that day.
Wore his usual ripped jeans and a faded Ramones tee, scuffed Vans kicking at nothing.
He doesn't wave.
Doesn't call out.
He just looks at me when I get close enough, head tilting like he's checking if I'm real.
"Thought you ghosted," he says.
"You've been doing that shit a lot lately."
I shrug, already stepping into his space.
We don't hug.
Don't pause.
Dap up—quick, practiced—palms, fingers, shake, slide, snap.
Same timing.
Same rhythm.
Like we've done it too many times to think about it.
I bump my shoulder lightly into his as I pass him—not stopping—and he falls into step beside me.
"You look like shit, Noa," he adds, glancing sideways.
I pause before responding, huffing a breath.
"Good thing I didn't ask."
Silence.
Or something like it.
"Didn't need you to."
I don't answer.
Don't need to.
We walk.
Not rushing.
Not slow.
Just...moving.
Streetlights cut over us in pieces—face, shadow, face, gone again.
Sacha flicks his cigarette, sparks spit across the pavement.
"You bring anything?" he asks.
His energy was already cranked; guy's like a live wire, turning boredom into a game.
I tap my pocket once.
He grins, quick, crooked, like that's enough information to trust.
It is.
We duck into a quieter side street.
"First bump of the night?" he asks, pulling out a tiny mirror from his back pocket—cracked at the edges, probably swiped from some club bathroom.
I nod, fishing the baggie from my pocket.
We chopped lines quick right there on the curb, the concrete rough under my ass as I sat, knees up.
Sacha went first, snorting his with a sharp inhale, head snapping back like he'd been slapped.
"Fuck yeah," he muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve, eyes lighting up brighter.
I follow, the burn hitting my sinuses like fire, then that rush—clean, sharp, lifting the edges of everything without yanking me off the cliff.
Energy ticked up, yeah, but I reined it in.
No wild-eyed frenzy yet; just a clearer edge to the world, colors popping a bit harder against the fading light.
"Solid shit," I say, passing the mirror back.
Sacha grins, all teeth and mischief.
"So, what's the plan, boss?"
We drift from there, boards clattering underfoot as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges.
Early evening now, the city's waking up for the night shift.
Hit the skate park in Tempelhofer Feld first—that massive abandoned airport turned urban playground, the concrete bowls scarred from a thousand tricks gone wrong.
The air was cooler here, carrying the stench of weed from a group of kids grinding rails nearby, their laughter echoing off the ramps.
Sacha ollied a curb like it was nothing, his board flipping smooth, landing with a satisfying smack.
"Watch this, Noa!" he yells, voice cutting through the hum of traffic in the distance.
I wasn't half as good, but I drop in anyway, the wind whipping my hair as I carve the bowl, knees bending to absorb the jolt.
Adrenaline mixes with the cokes buzz, making my skin tingle.
Sweat beads on my forehead despite the chill, and I can taste the salt when I lick my lips.
We took turns, him showing off with some half-assed kickflip that nearly sent him sprawling, me sticking to basics but feeling the rush in my veins.
A couple of locals nod at us—punky types with piercings glinting in the low light, one girl with neon pink hair flipping her board absentmindedly.
No real chat.
From the park, we wander up to a rooftop we've scoped before—some abandoned warehouse, accessed by a rickety fire escape that creaked like it might give any second.
Climbing up, the metal cold against my palms, city sprawled out below like a glittering beast.
Up top, graffiti-covered vents and old AC units for cover.
We sprawl out on the ground—passing a cigarette back and forth.
Smoke curls lazy into the dusk, mixing with the faint rot of the city below.
“Remember that time in Kreuzberg?” Sacha says, exhaling slow, his voice dropping into that storytelling mode he does so well.
“We nearly got busted by those undercover pigs, but you talked our way out like a pro.”
I laugh, a rough bark.
“Yeah, 'cause you were too fucked to open your mouth without slurring.”
The feeling kept things light, controlled—my thoughts sharp, but not racing.
We play around a bit, tossing pebbles off the edge, watching them plink into the void, just chilling, legs dangling over the drop.
The city's hum rises up—horns blaring, distant bass from a bar thumping.
Eventually, we climb down, boards under arms, heading to these wide stone steps near Alexanderplatz.
Touristy as fuck during the day, but now, early evening shadows making it feel like our own.
We sit here watching the flow—drunk Brits stumbling from pubs, a cluster of ravers in fishnets and glow sticks heading somewhere louder, an old homeless guy muttering to his bottle.
We share a joint, small talk drifting like the haze.
Then the mini social pocket hit, like the city decided to throw us a bone.
We run into Mia and her crew first—Sacha's ex-fling, this fiery redhead with tattoos snaking up her arms like vines, dressed in a leather skirt that hugs her hips tight.
She was with two guys, one built like a brick shithouse with a buzzcut and scars on his knuckles, the other skinny and twitchy, eyes red from whatever he's been on.
"Sacha, you fucker!" Mia yells, hugging him quick and sloppy, her perfume sharp and floral cutting through the street stink.
"Haven't seen your ass since that acid trip in Neukölln."
He laughs, pulling back.
"Yeah, when you puked on my fucking shoes? Good times."
Quick banter, her hand lingering on his arm.
I hang back, nodding when she turns to me.
"Noa, right? You still slinging that good shit?"
I shrug, playing it cool.
"Something like that."
The big guy grunts something about a fight at a club last week, voice like gravel, but it fizzles—nothing stuck, just surface scratches.
Sacha chats them up, coming and going in the flow, disappearing for a minute to hug another acquaintance—a lanky dude with dreads selling bootleg cigs—then back like it was nothing.
The group ebbs away toward the U-Bahn, Mia blows a kiss that Sacha dodges with a wink.
"Later, wild ones!"
Brief as a spark, gone in the night.
Nights proper now, the sky inked black, streetlights buzzing like angry insects.
We score another bump from the baggie—sitting on a low wall near a flickering neon sign for some bar, the air thick with fried food and smoke.
Sacha chops the lines sloppy this time, powder dusting his jeans.
"Escalation time, eh?" he says, voice edged with that hungry gleam.
I snort mine, the burn fiercer, hitting harder.
Then we grabs drinks—beers from a corner Imbiss, cold and foamy, chugging them down as the high layers on.
Senses sharpen first—every sound crisper, the bass from a passing car thumping in my chest like a second heartbeat.
The beer's bitter bite on my tongue, the chill seeping into my fingers.
But then it dulls, edges blurring just enough to make the world feel dreamlike, insulated.
Sacha's buzzing harder, talking faster about some gig he wants to hit, his gestures wild.
"C'mon, Noa, let's chase this shit."
We walk into the night from there, weaving through the crowds thickening around Mitte—neon signs bleeding colors onto wet pavement from a fresh drizzle, laughter spilling from doorways.
The coke and beer pulling us like a current, toward the pulse.
Sacha leads the way, alive as ever, and I follow, the city wrapping around us like a promise of more chaos.
Changing texture as the night deepens.
But I already know—
I'm not going home tonight.
