I intended to publish this entry a month ago, but at that time, both the app and the website were down for days, so it ended up marinating in my notes.
This post will talk about Johannes again. Specifically, his apartment.
I was staring at the pictures he sent me. Scrutinising. Examining. His living–dining room, most especially.
The whole place is soaked in this buttery amber glow, part sunlight, part careful design. As though the room itself were trying to seduce someone. And maybe it is.
To the left, a small, earth-toned sofa sat snug against the wall, cradled by an explosion of vibrant cushions—teal, mustard, monochrome patterns. I can't help but wonder... Whose butts have sat there?
An image of a beautiful blonde straddling him popped into my head.
Kissing him, digging her fingers into his dark blonde hair..
Surprisingly, I feel no “sting” of jealousy. Just a quiet, numb pang beneath the surface. Something akin to betrayal, envy, and resignation all blending into a familiar ache.
Above the sofa, abstract art hangs with surgical precision. Bold red suns, hypnotic lines. There are geometric planters mounted beside them—a touch of green here and there. On the pass-through kitchen window, a motivational decal pretends to whisper purpose.
Across the room, the dining table stretched out like an invitation—long, black, elegant. Six dark, cushioned chairs encircle it like quiet companions that know how to keep a secret. The centrepiece is understated but deliberate: a woven runner, tulips standing alert in pale ceramic vases, and a row of soft-glowing candles that flicker without flame.
Six seats...
Does he get visitors often? Does he entertain now? Has he found a circle of friends?
Before he started his PhD, the only time he was around people was through work events or the occasional business trips. Overall, he was a lonely man. For all his confidence, charm, and good looks, he never felt like he belonged anywhere.
But last year, before our official fallout, he attended a football match with a colleague from the university. Maybe now, he’s built a social life. Maybe he hosts dinners. Maybe people gather around that table. Maybe someone else laughs in his kitchen now..
A black shelf leaned in the corner, dressed in little curiosities—books, dried florals, abstract sculptures, stacks of black and red cups, each placed as if part of a silent ritual. I zoomed in. The ugly puppet he had customised nearly two years ago lay on the very bottom shelf.
And then I saw a chessboard .. I paused. When did he start playing chess? He never liked chess. I challenged him to a few games back then and he was rubbish. Never did he want to play it with me again cos he kept losing. Has he now found someone with which he actually wants to play?
Nearby, a tall lamp casts warm light onto the wooden laminate floor like honey. A plant on the sill reaches toward the window with the kind of yearning I know too well.
The lighting is gorgeous. Romantic. Soft, glowy, flattering. The kind that makes you want to forgive his sins and crawl into his lap, and it irks me.
The whole room has a warm, moody, and welcoming atmosphere—clearly arranged with a sense of style and personality. The mix of natural and artificial light, cosy seating, and thoughtful décor gives it a balanced charm between modern and homely. Chace's lazy man-flat could never...
And again, I can't help wondering...
This space doesn't seem to be thrown together by a man who just happened to like cosy lighting and decorative vases. This room screams intention.
The colour coordination of the throw cushions alone is not casual. It's a damn colour palette.
The dining table symmetry—the matching vases, the LED candles..
No man wakes up thinking, “I’ll set the mood with soft ambient lighting tonight.”
The artwork is bold, modern, warm. The whole atmosphere says aesthetic is survival.
Now, could Johannes have done it all? Sure. He's the kind of guy who doesn't feel emasculated by wearing pink shirts, after all. And he's always had a quiet sensibility in him not very common in men. But odds are... this has a woman’s touch all over it. Thoughtful, welcoming, balanced between function and feel.
Does he have a girlfriend after all?
The flowers on the table, on top of the shelf, and by the windowsill... If I hadn’t known whose place this was, I would’ve never thought it belonged to a man.
He used to tell me I could live with him.
“For free?” I’d tease.
He’d laugh and say yes, “For free.”
When I asked if there was a spare room for me, he looked confused—because he’d assumed we’d be sharing one.
But he said he could pull out a spare, if I insisted.
I wonder what he’s made of it now..
And what about his bedroom?
What does it look like?
Has a woman slept there?
Universe .. it’s not that I’m jealous. It’s just that.. I did pray to you and to Lucifer to make him miserable. If he has a woman, then perhaps he’s happy. And if he’s happy, then my prayers failed.
I’m not even furiously angry or upset at this point anymore. Perhaps it’s time. Perhaps it’s Cloud and his affection for me. Or both. But when I think back to myself that dawn—crying, pleading—the sting comes back like it was yesterday.
And I feel pity for that version of me.
And that pity?
It reignites my hatred for Johannes.
And so I pray again.
For his peace to fall apart, piece by delicate piece.