Do you remember Amsterdam Centraal? The station with its old and grand, stately facade looking out over the city and its stark modern back, as if it couldn’t make up its mind about what to be. It’s the kind of place that seems to welcome you but only if you’re just passing through. The Muzak hums in the endless fluorescent corridors. Friendly enough at first, until you’d heard it on repeat a few times. Then it turnes into psychological warfare—bright, chirpy melodies designed to keep you moving.
Homeless men try to slip through the turnstiles, searching for shelter, but even if they got in, they wouldn’t find much warmth in there. The winter nights are cold and the station’s policy strictly forbids lingering afterhours. I remember the smell, too: reheated croissants and various processed foods mingling with the sharp tang of bodies and disinfectant. That smell comes back to me sometimes, and with it, a wave of loneliness I can’t quite shake. I adored Amsterdam because I adored you. When I saw you walking toward me when you picked me up at the train station—always late, in your black down jacket—I’d let go of the frustration and the fatigue. To kill time I would go to fast food joints and chain stores—the same ones you find in the city center. We laughed about the Christmas lights that spelled out SHOP NEVER STOP, though it felt like they meant it.
There was always something to do, someone to meet. Events, you said, were important for your career as an emerging artist. I was intoxicated by the crowded rooms, the overlapping languages, the knowing glances, and the mischievous gossip. It felt like we were part of something bigger, like we were reaching for it together. My vision of you was shrouded in a thick fog of hopes and expectations. Being with you was a constant race toward something greater.
You told me once that you were diagnosed with ADHD. Of course you did. You couldn’t sit still. The carelessness, the lack of attention toward me, the endless need to be reassured, or to feel superior to others weren’t your fault—or maybe they were. One summer, when you couldn’t get out of bed despite the scholarship and all that free time stretched out in front of you, I took you to a psychiatrist. You didn’t want to go, and when you came out crying, I knew you wouldn’t go a second time. I didn’t push. You didn’t want professional help, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I told myself that I was mentally stable enough for both of us. I wanted to believe that. But the truth is, I wasn’t. The hospital secretary, when I called to make an appointment, told me, “Hang in there dear.”
I ignored the warning signs telling me our relationship was wearing me down. The pain of being with you was easier to bear than the pain of being apart. And then we were apart anyway, living in different cities, seeing each other every other weekend. Saying goodbye at the station became its own kind of heartbreak. You’d kiss me on the platform, and I’d board the train feeling sick and alone.
Amsterdam Centraal, with its back overlooking the IJ River. Often, at the end of weekends spent together, you’d accompany me there with a few minutes to spare so we could eat a sandwich on the pier. We silently watched the grayish waters and the ferries full of tourists.