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My life is in a cloud.

Well, not all of it.

My body isn't.

But everything else. What I see, think and feel.

That's in a cloud. And it feels so strange,

that body and soul are separated. And it also feels fragile.

As if my life is drifting apart.

Do you think that's strange?

It's just that I take everything literally.

I picture it. A real cloud. A cumulus cloud.

It's fairly solid, so it's easy to imagine that it contains stuff.

But sometimes I picture cirrus clouds.

Or worse, just a translucent veil of clouds.

And then I worry that there's nothing there to keep things in place.

And that everything I am, will fall down into the street and get washed away by the rain.

SEX / DREAMS / LOVE

DREAMS / LOVE

DREAMS

-You're applying to the Academy, right? -For dance?

-Nah. -Why not? You're so talented.

-You've danced classical ballet too, right? -Yes, but that just felt humiliating.

I read somewhere that classical ballet is based on outdated gender attitudes.

That it should be abolished.

-Not all dance is like classical ballet. -Yes, to some degree.

I want to study sociology.

-You read a lot, huh? -A lot.

Don't you read?

A little. But mostly when people give me books.

I love that.

I'm flattered that people think of me as someone who reads books.

But not everything in books is true.

Sure, but that's not why I read. To find out what's true.

I read to have a place to go.

And to arrive at myself.

All of this started with a book.

It all started with a book which eventually led to me writing a book.

It wasn't even a famous book, just one I found in my grandmother's cabin

and read when we were there, last Easter.

I was there with Jenny, a friend.

Her family doesn't have a cabin.

And she went on about how lucky we were to have a cabin.

It would be fun to have a cabin where we could play cards and ...

And my mum, who refuses to see how privileged we are,

made matters worse by saying you don't have to be rich to own a cabin.

She means to say that if your family is rich, you don't need money ...

-Mum! Stop it. -You can live off the inheritance.

Found your bra?

I'd sprained my ankle and had to rest.

And when Mum, Nan and Jenny went for a walk, I picked a book from the shelf.

By pure coincidence, really.

It's called "L'esprit de famille",

and it's similar to Little Women, which you might know.

This one is also about four sisters.

They're doctor's daughters living on the outskirts of Paris.

The main character, Pauline, is sixteen.

The book starts with her starting at a new school in Paris.

There, she meets a girl named Bea, whose uncle is an artist.

One day they visit his studio.

He's unlike anyone she's ever met.

He looks her in the eye and talks to her like she's an adult.

Even though he's much older and has a ten-year-old daughter,

she falls in love with him.

She doesn't tell anyone, just keeps visiting him with Bea.

Until one day when Bea is ill.

Then she plucks up courage and visits him alone.

And when he opens the door and sees that she's alone,

she realises he feels the same way, that he's been waiting for her to come.

And then they have sex.

And, well ...

When I read it, it was like I recognized something within myself.

A kind of yearning.

One I'd felt before, ever since childhood, but never understood.

And tried to keep at a distance.

But now I could feel it in my entire body, on my skin.

A powerful, tingling sensation of wanting to be completely naked next to someone.

And there was one thing in the book that I truly loved.

Pauline had a long, knitted scarf.

And whenever she left his house, he would wrap the scarf three times around her neck.

Always three times.

And he did it with such ... tenderness that I welled up reading it.

Mostly because it was so beautiful.

But also because I so yearned for one day having that happen to me.

A few months passed, and although I did think about it that spring and summer,

it was no longer quite so intense.

And when I first felt the yearning return, it was halfway through autumn term.

The intensity of it caught me completely off guard.

Maybe that's the way it goes - things happen when you least expect it.

Hi, my name is Johanna. I'll be your French and Norwegian teacher this year.

A little bit about me:

My name is Johanna ... like I just said.

I studied textile art at the Academy of the Arts, and I also work as a teacher.

I spent a year in the USA, in the Midwest,

where I worked at an organic peanut farm for six months.

That was quite boring, so I moved to New York and got a job at a caf�.

I also studied fashion in Paris for a year.

Alright? Just ask if you have any questions.

Please tell me your name and one fun fact about yourself.

-What's your name? -Anine. I like to dye my hair.

-Nice colour. And you? -My name is ...

My name is Josef, and I love working out.

My name is Helene, and I don't like chocolate.

-And you? What's your name? -My name is Johanne, and I like ... salmon.

I'll remember that. It's just like mine, with an E at the end.

What's your name?

My name is Johannes, and I'm illegal in 69 countries.

At first, I couldn't put my finger on it.

It was so overwhelming. Completely weird.

As if I could feel her presence throughout my body.

I started looking for her.

The day felt like a complete waste if I hadn't seen her.

And it didn't take much. A slight glimpse was enough to put me in a great mood.

-Hi! -Hi.

She was very kind and sweet to everyone.

But it still felt like she paid me extra attention.

And since French is one of my best subjects,

we were kind of on the same wavelength.

And even if her classes went over everyone's heads,

she was really into French presidents, for instance,

I was able to keep up, and she liked that.

She called me Jeanne, French for Johanne.

R�duire les trop grandes in�galit�s de revenu

et d�veloper l�ducation et la culture?

She didn't speak like that to anyone else.

Maybe that's why I started fantasising that she liked me more than the others,

and that we had a special connection.

It really felt like that.

I thought about her more and more. Not just at school, but at home as well.

It was like she was always at the back of my mind.

No matter which context, she appeared.

She was the first thing on my mind when I woke up.

While having breakfast, all I could think of was what she was having.

I imagined that she'd be eating croissants.

I thought about her when getting dressed as well. Wondered what she might wear.

I tried to pick outfits I thought she'd like, or at least notice.

Because I had noticed her outfits, you know?

She had a lovely, unique style.

She mostly wore wool jumpers.

It fascinated me that she could wear wool against her skin.

I've always found that so uncomfortable.

But seeing her wear it, did something to me.

And when she rolled up her sleeves ...

That point where the sleeve met her skin ...

The sight of that sent quivers through my whole body.

I was dying to touch it. See what it felt like.

But even though I could feel the effect it had on me,

I still did not understand what it was.

Isn't that strange?

I don't think I realized it until I woke up from a dream about her.

We were at a cabin.

There were others, but they were outside. Only Johanna and I were in the cabin.

I was taking a nap on the sofa, but I wasn't asleep, because I could feel her presence.

She lay down close to me.

I could feel her knee between mine. She put her arm around me.

And I opened my eyes and turned to face her.

And suddenly, it was as if we were naked.

Then I woke up.

My body felt warm and strange, almost as if I had a fever.

And I felt awful.

Like I'd done something terrible.

Something forbidden, almost.

It lingered in my body the next day.

And I was worried that people could tell.

That everyone could see what I had dreamed.

Luckily, the first class wasn't hers. We had choreography.

We'd made small everyday routines tied to various parts of our school.

And despite feeling so out of it, it was so fun that I forgot it for a while.

... eight, one and two, three and four.

Five, six, seven, eight, one, two, three, four.

Five, six, seven, eight, one, two, three, four,

five, six, seven, eight.

But later that day, in her class, I could feel the shame flooding back.

When she came in, it felt like she was looking right at me.

As if she knew everything.

I could hardly look at her, just tried to work out how to avoid her.

Even though ... That's not what I wanted, right?

I wanted the very opposite.

Then it felt like everything came crashing down.

No matter how I looked at it, it all seemed impossible.

And I wasn't even able to hide it.

I have to ask. Anine and I spoke about it earlier.

You've seemed a bit off lately.

Why would you be talking about that?

We were worried you were struggling with something.

Well, there's nothing.

-I found this website. -Anine, stop it.

Listen: There are many anonymous helplines for young people in Norway

where you can talk to someone.

You can also try self-help apps, which can help you get out of difficult situations.

-I don't need that. -Maia tried it.

She did? Why?

Her mother was on a home makeover show, and she couldn't handle it.

-You could try it. -It worked for her.

I don't need or want to try that. I'm fine.

Would you rather we didn't ask?

No, it's just ... I'm having trouble sleeping, that's all.

-They can help with sleeping too. -Like sleep apps.

I couldn't tell them. What would I say?

That I was in love?

And it was then, when that word crossed my mind, that it dawned on me what this was.

I was simply head over heels in love with Johanna.

It felt terrible and wonderful at the same time.

It felt inconceivable. Because she's an adult.

But so was the artist in the book.

And that didn't bother me when I read it.

The more I thought about it, the more I allowed myself to fantasise about it.

Do you understand what I'm trying to say?

When you think about something long enough,

it gradually seems less unrealistic.

With these thoughts going through my mind, I was yearning to tell someone.

That's what it's like to be in love. You want everyone to know.

Because it feels so wonderful.

And most of all, I wanted to tell Johanna.

I lay awake thinking about how she might react if I told her.

The worst thing would be if she couldn't grasp what I was saying.

Or even worse; that she'd laugh, condescendingly.

The way adults laugh when a child says something adorable.

We heard today was your birthday, so we knitted this for you.

For me?

-Can I open it now? -Of course!

-We knitted it ourselves. -This is so exciting!

I hadn't realized it was her birthday.

And the knitting - I'd seen her talking to some of the students about it.

Since she's a textile artist and knitting had become a thing.

But it never occurred to me to ... because I had no interest in knitting.

But I should've seen that it could have been a way to get closer to her.

Suddenly, it felt like everyone else was closer to her than I was.

I felt completely lost.

I blamed myself for not having thought of it.

But I didn't even know how to knit.

I had to learn it, but how long would that take?

Mum?

-I see where they're going ... -Mum.

You're on Zoom, just so you know. This is not a good time.

I just have a quick question. Can you teach me to knit?

Excuse me. Ask your nan. Don't know if we even have needles.

We must have knitting needles!

We definitely don't have any yarn. We can buy some next week.

Next week? I have to learn now!

I haven't knitted anything for years. I'm not the right person to ask.

-You don't know anything! -We'll talk about it later.

That weekend I was in a dark place.

I pictured all kinds of horrible scenarios.

Like the other students visiting her, and they were all knitting together.

And that I was the only one not invited.

Very sick thoughts.

As you know, the pandemic has affected us all over the past year.

The following Monday, I was completely exhausted.

My mum wanted me to stay home, but I couldn't. I had to see her.

I couldn't bear the thought of others seeing her and not I.

I didn't have any of her classes, which was awful as well.

I didn't even know if she was at school.

Do you have any thoughts on how the pandemic has affected us?

No.

Then I saw her coming in, late in the day. It was almost anticlimactic, painful,

seeing her all happy and content.

What are you looking at?

I was at a loss. It felt like I was losing my mind.

During last recess, I couldn't take it anymore.

I went to the teacher's lounge. I had to talk to her.

I had to tell her everything I had planned to tell her.

-Have you seen Johanna today? -Yes, but she's in a meeting right now.

Okay.

Then it sounds like you'll be the alternate.

But when I stood there, I ...

When you're lying in bed imagining things,

you forget that reality is often quite different.

Are you looking for someone?

That the lights are different. That other people are present.

That the words you've planned are impossible to express

in the middle of the afternoon at an ordinary school in Oslo.

Reality has no room for that.

I didn't go to school that week. My mum thought I was sick.

And in a way, I was. I could hardly eat, nor sleep.

I just lay in bed thinking about her.

I would stare at a photo I'd secretly taken of her in class.

One minute I'd picture her visiting me, crying and telling me she'd missed me.

And I would pull her close and comfort her.

And I imagined us as a couple.

Shopping, holding hands, holidaying in Spain.

But the next minute, everything felt hopeless.

And I just lay there, crying.

At that point, I decided to go talk to her.

I found her address online, but I'd never been to that part of town.

And wandered the streets for a long time before finding her building.

It felt like throwing myself from a cliff.

I would either be saved, and everything would be fine.

Or my entire life would end.

A year has passed since then, and in one way it's okay that it's over.

These days, I rarely think about her. And when I do, it's happy thoughts.

Because it was so nice. Very painful, but mostly wonderful.

That's why I wrote it down. To keep it with me.

I know I will never forget it, but memories change, you know.

I thought that if I found the right words to describe it exactly as it was,

I could capture it, make it solid.

Something I can hold in the palm of my hand forever.

That's why I didn't want to store it in the cloud.

I wanted to keep it with me, close to my body.

At first, I kept it on my Mac.

Then I had the idea of storing it on a flash drive Jenny gave me for Christmas.

Which is now my most precious possession in the world.

Still.

Because it is still like that.

Despite my worries it would feel different once I'd let someone else read it.

I hadn't told a living soul, right.

Which I was happy about.

But afterwards, when it hurt the most, it felt so very lonely keeping it to myself.

So I decided to show Nan what I'd written.

She's more open-minded than Mum.

Yet I regretted it as soon as I'd asked her.

And when I went to talk to her, I was angry with myself,

convinced I'd ruined it all.

I love the colours. Have you knitted a similar scarf yourself?

No, I haven't. I only have the one you bought me.

There's no harm in having two.

I never wear it. It's much too warm for me.

-They're not really my colours. -I see.

But it's beautiful. Truly.

Is that what I've written?

-You printed it out? -Yes ...?

-Can I have the printout after? -Yes, of course.

-You didn't print any more copies? -No.

I don't want anyone else to read it.

And the flash drive, do you have that?

Here it is.

Aren't you going to say something? Did you read it?

I read it.

I'm just wondering, how are you doing now? It was so sad.

I'm fine.

You're over it? No longer in love?

You're not in touch with her still?

I haven't seen her in ages.

-She doesn't teach at my school anymore. -I see.

I'm just asking.

So what do you think?

-About what you wrote? -Yeah, about the whole thing.

-You're not saying anything. -I don't know what to say.

You've written it for your own sake, right? As a way of processing it?

Yeah ... I wrote it because I didn't want it to disappear.

I wanted to hold on to it.

So I can keep it with me forever.

I mean, it was ...

It's the most beautiful thing I'll ever experience.

Still, a part of me wanted someone else to know about it.

Because I've had no one to share any of this with.

And that has been pretty lonely.

When something really awful or wonderful happens,

you want to share it with someone.

I understand completely.

I'm so glad you trusted me to read this.

But then, I think ... You know me, I'm a poet.

Are you considering the possibility of turning this into a book?

Is that why you wanted me to read it? To help you?

No. I asked you because I didn't have anyone else I could ask.

And I thought you may be the only one who wouldn't react badly to this.

Get really shocked or angry.

No, not at all, sweetie.

It didn't shock you?

No ... Shocked?

Well, maybe a bit.

It was fairly shocking reading.

-But you're not disappointed in me? -No, not the tiniest bit.

But ...

Johanne, you must show this to your mother.

No, I can't. What makes you say that?

You must.

-If you don't, I will have to. -No. You can't do that!

-She's going to freak out! -Listen, sweetie.

I talk to Kristin maybe one, two, five, ten times a week.

Keeping this from her would feel very uncomfortable for me.

She is your mother, after all. I would feel like I was going behind her back.

That's not how we do things in our little family.

Do you want me to talk to her? I can ask her to read it.

Then you must promise not to give her the copy.

-She can read it here. -And give it back to me afterwards.

-And delete any copies on your computer. -I promise.

This whole thing was a mistake.

Well, not entirely. It was a massive relief to finally get it off my chest.

And I realize that I had to let Mum read it.

But I still think of that as the beginning of the end.

If you can say that. Well, the end of what, exactly?

Thoughts and dreams can be wonderful.

They can contain, look like and be however you like.

As long as you keep them to yourself.

The second you let others in, everything crumbles and changes.

And that's what happened.

After Mum read it, everything took a different turn.

-What do you think? -I feel sad.

She never said a word. I don't know if I should be angry or what.

-I need water. -Yoghurt?

No, thanks. Coffee, maybe.

Have you read the whole thing?

I'm just ...

I can't believe I didn't ...

... see it or noticed anything.

-You had no idea, right? -Not before reading this.

-I knew something was up, I just ... -You didn't expect this.

I really didn't.

-Can you turn down the music, please? -Do it yourself!

So often, I've ...

When I think about Johanne, I so often ...

... picture her back when she was little.

But she's not a child anymore, that's for sure.

But when I read this, with all those intimate descriptions ...

While also picturing a child ...

It's very confusing.

-Quite racy. -You could say that.

What are you thinking?

I don't know.

I have to call the school.

Or report the school to the police.

Maybe report the teacher? What do you think?

First, I have to talk to Johanne and find out what really happened.

-It's all in there. -Is it, though?

How much is true, and how much is just made-up?

You could interpret this as something imagined.

But I find that hard to believe, when the writing is so ...

How can you write something like this unless you've experienced it?

It's so detailed.

Her descriptions of the teacher's body ...

She must have ... seen her naked.

I thought so too. But it could also be a literary device.

You know, the ambiguity.

Leaving the reader to wonder whether this happened,

or if it's all just in the protagonist's head.

That's what makes it so intriguing to me.

As a reader, I mean. It's so very gripping.

Some of those passages are out of this world, right?

It's so well written.

At times, I almost forgot that this is about Johanne.

-Really? -Yes.

I didn't read it like that at all.

If this is true, if any of this actually happened,

then it was illegal, and Johanne is a victim of assault.

Assault? No, I can't believe that.

But there's no way for you to know that.

If you're able to write about something in this manner,

with such maturity, and employing such literary devices,

doesn't that indicate that you're of sound mind and on top of the situation?

There's no indication that she's experienced something painful.

Apart from heartbreak, which can hurt like hell.

She's written a beautiful, remarkable love story.

And ...

This wasn't written by an assault victim.

She's seventeen, she's not capable of assessing ...

I mean ... She could have been manipulated!

It can take years to realize. It has to be processed.

She's written a 95-page story,

a detailed analysis of her own emotional life.

If that's not processing it, I don't know what is.

You say it's ambiguous. That I agree with.

But that ambiguity could be construed as an attempt to protect the people involved.

Johanne could be protecting her assailant.

Stop it. You've gone completely off the rails, Kristin.

Maybe you've listened to too many podcasts.

She wrote this for herself. Why protect anyone?

She asked us to read it. That could be a cry for help.

Give it a rest. She wanted us to read it a while later.

She told me she wrote it to preserve it the way it was.

"Like the Virgin Mary," she said, "who kept her secret in her heart".

But unlike the Virgin Mary, she wanted to write it down.

To have a material account of it.

Like ... Like a thing.

-Like a thing? -Yes.

I want to read it again.

Be careful. She told me this was the most beautiful thing she's experienced.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

Didn't you want coffee after all?

It's too late. I want to go home and read it again.

-I promised I wouldn't give it to you. -I'll make sure she won't find out.

I should've known. Thinking about it makes me furious.

Yet, if it were me, if I was in Mum's shoes,

I'd also insist on taking it with me. To her, this wasn't someone's life.

It was just a stack of paper with information about her daughter.

Maybe I shouldn't have written it in the first place?

Why must we talk about, photograph or write about our experience?

Isn't it enough to just keep it with you, as a memory?

A memory you can remember any way you like.

Because that's another thing.

Knowing they had read it, I suddenly cared what they thought.

Whether they thought it was well written, and what they thought about the contents.

I'd written things about myself they didn't know about.

Not to mention a fair amount of sexual stuff.

They're pretty open-minded, but not used to hearing such things from me.

There were other embarrassing things too. Because I had been lying quite a bit.

To Mum, saying I was going to dance class when I was actually visiting Johanna.

But to Johanna as well. The first time I went there,

I lied.

I'd been planning to tell her I was in love.

But when I got there, it didn't feel necessary.

Because she never asked ... That's what I was afraid of.

That she'd wonder what I was doing there.

But she just embraced me and took me in. As if she had been expecting me.

Like, "of course you should be here with me".

"This is where you belong."

And that's exactly how it felt.

Her flat was so nice.

Would you like a cup of tea?

It felt like I became someone else when I walked in there.

Or ... it felt like I became the person I'd always wanted to be.

Another thing stopping me from telling her what I'd planned to,

was the way she spoke to me.

She saw how upset I was, and assumed it was about school.

So I kind of played along.

I told her things that weren't completely true,

but they weren't outright lies.

They were things I'd been struggling with in our group of friends and so on.

I just feel like there's so much competition.

That we end up playing these roles that we're unable to break free from.

You feel like you've ended up in a role that is ...

And even though I now see that I used it as something of an excuse,

talking to Johanna about it still felt really good.

Not to brag, but I feel that I reflect a lot more than others in my class.

-That I see the whole picture. -Right.

And when I speak my mind, I feel that ...

That they don't take me seriously, or look at me like I'm stupid.

-And then I feel so stupid. -Hey, now ...

You're anything but stupid.

Hey ...

Listen, I think it's so good that you take this seriously.

You really must.

If you don't take yourself seriously, others won't either.

No ...

And just because you sometimes bring up serious matters,

you can still fool around, right? You don't have to pick one or the other.

You can be all of that.

I must've stayed for three hours.

I didn't want to leave, but it was getting late.

And while we were saying goodbye, I complimented her jumper.

I told her how much I liked it and that I wished I knew how to knit.

And then she said she could teach me. And just like that, we had agreed.

That I was coming back, and that she would teach me how to knit.

It felt amazing.

But not as amazing as what happened next.

Because then ... Well ...

She grabbed my scarf and wound it around my neck.

It happened so quickly. I was so surprised that I could hardly make sense of it.

And then we hugged. But it didn't feel like an ordinary hug.

That is ... She was so close to me.

And I could feel our thighs touching, and ...

It didn't last long, but I think ...

I'm almost certain it was more than a normal hug to her as well.

Then I started going there.

I went every Monday, I'd skip dance class to visit her.

It felt a bit like I was sneaking.

Since my mum thought I was at dance class,

I took a detour past the dance studio, just in case.

It's strange how this part of town changes from one block to the next.

From the Botanical Gardens, where Nan meets her friends for walks and coffee,

to Motzfeldt Street, which is like entering a different society

where people like different things, and have community in their shared faith.

Unlike us.

I asked Mum and Nan once why we don't believe in anything.

And Mum said she believes in love, democracy and free speech.

That made Nan sad, because she believes in God and finds comfort in it.

"Free speech won't hold your hand on your deathbed," she said.

At the end of Motzfeldt Street, you cross a square.

Then you're just a stone's throw away from Johanna's flat.

Here you find different kinds of people.

People that will never set foot in the Botanical Gardens or Motzfeldt Street.

It's so strange.

You cross a footbridge into the stronghold of capitalism, as Nan would say.

Where people look like they live and breathe money.

I don't know why Johanna lived there.

She was so different from the others living here.

It wasn't her flat.

It belonged to a woman she knew who spent most of her time abroad.

When I asked who she was, Johanna clammed up.

I was at Johanna's nine times in total.

And each time, it felt like I knew the way a little better.

As if I owned it a little more each time.

Whichever it was, it felt like I was growing.

As if I was turning into someone else.

I started thinking of other words. Shale. Wool. Water.

Everything I associated with Johanna

that opened up my world and made my life bigger.

It felt so good to be there.

Just being in the same room, doing our own thing.

It felt like this is what it's like to be a couple.

And I did learn to knit.

I knew the very basics. But nothing like this.

Like Johanna said: It's an art of its own.

And to master it, you have to practise it.

It has to become muscle memory.

A sensibility acquired through experience, which almost hurts at first.

Because it's awkward and clumsy, but then ...

... when you get it, you've got it for life.

I often thought about how safe I felt, being there.

I couldn't read her mind, but I think she liked having me there too.

I mean, she must have.

Because sometimes, it felt like she didn't want me to leave.

She'd sit really close to me.

And it felt like we were just about to, well ... kiss.

The more you practise, the better you become.

But then she pulled away as if nothing had happened.

But I could tell she liked me. She told me as much.

That she thought I was wonderful.

Which made me pretty flustered.

Other times, it almost felt like she was playing with me.

But that made it more special, in a way.

You wouldn't tease someone you didn't like, would you?

She's not as old as Mum. But an adult, nonetheless.

She reminds me of one of my cousins who's twenty. They have the same skin.

Incredibly soft.

So ... It just felt completely overwhelming.

Just looking at her would drive me crazy.

The only thing I wanted, was to touch her.

And it drove me crazy every time I left without having done that.

-I know she and her friends have tested porn. -Have you spoken to her?

No. I read it again yesterday, and she's at school today.

When I read it again yesterday, I was so ...

I've started thinking about other things, like myself.

It's so good! I had no idea she could write like that.

I got so carried away that I forgot I was reading about Johanne.

-That's exactly what I said yesterday. -You did?

I can really relate to what it was like, being so in love,

and the tenderness I could feel for someone else. I so miss that.

I thought about all the people I've slept with ...

All those wonderful, warm bodies that are no longer a part of my life.

-Have you slept with that many? -Yes.

More than you, I reckon.

Jesus, I made my debut at the age of fourteen.

Sexually, I mean. And as a writer when I was thirty-one.

The former was a bit early, perhaps. The latter much too late.

I have to admit I cried a little ...

... after reading it. It was just ...

-It made me feel a little old. -Jesus, you're not old.

If you were old, I'd be dead a long time ago.

I asked Johanne if she wanted me to read it

to get my professional opinion on it.

-With an intent to publish it? -That was my first thought.

But what ...

Do you think it could be a book?

I was ready to call my publisher and ask her to look at it.

They couldn't turn down something this fabulous.

-But that's not happening. -Why not?

It wasn't written to be published, she wrote it to herself. It's her life.

It wouldn't be her life any less if she published it.

It wouldn't!

I'm just thinking out loud.

Yesterday, you said she was a victim of abuse, and now you want to publish it?

I reacted instinctively. Now I see it as a little feminist gem of a text.

You went fast from assault to feminism.

You've got to help me get up here.

Is there an internal struggle going on in your head?

You can't make sense of it, because ... Oh, is it the Bront� sisters?

Are you foraging for mushrooms? Any luck?

It's a bit late in the year. We found some.

Funnel chanterelles, already frozen!

-There we go! -Isn't it getting a bit dark?

It is, but we'll keep looking a bit longer.

-We won't keep you. -Have a good one!

You're so prejudiced about me.

What if I simply think we should utilise our resources?

Even the fact that you're using the word "resources", makes me ...

Then I might as well keep quiet, if you object to the words I use!

You know, I remember it so clearly.

Do you remember when we saw Flashdance ages ago?

That's the first time I can remember feeling dumb.

Because I had a different opinion than you. I loved that film. I was ten.

And you tore it apart like it was the worst film ever made, a crime against humanity.

Well, it was a horrible film. Kristin, please listen to me.

I'm from a generation who were on the barricades from before we hit puberty,

fighting for equal rights.

So when you wanted to watch Flashdance, I thought:

Fantastic! Finally a movie about a female welder.

She was surrounded by men, but she's completely unfazed.

Long live equality!

But that wasn't what the film was about.

It was about her wanting to be a sexy dancer.

She would only serve to reinforce

the sexist female stereotype we'd been fighting so hard against!

Can't you see that that film was a giant disappointment and backlash

for everything I'd worked so long for!

You said that repeatedly! But I loved it. I was ten years old!

I just wanted to dance. You could've let me have that joy!

Honestly! Didn't I get you the soundtrack?

But I couldn't enjoy it!

You robbed me of that joy by letting me feel I was wrong to like it.

Maybe it was a good thing I robbed you of that joy.

It's not right to enjoy something so wrong!

It's almost like those mass rallies

the nazis organized in N�rnberg back in the day.

I'm sure it was very entertaining. I'm sure people loved them.

-This is so dumb. -But I must be allowed to criticize it!

-Okay, take Flashdance. -Why can't I criticize it?

You can interpret it as a story about social mobility, right?

She's already proven herself in a male-dominated job, and now ...

I can't help but think we've lost something with your generation.

You're so short-sighted.

I should be allowed to say that I think it's a wonderful book.

-Press that. Is the light on? -No.

-Pull that up. -Easier said than done.

-Is someone there? -Is it on?

There! Hello!

-It's the Bront� sisters. -Do you know where the path is?

We're standing on it.

-Can we walk with you to the parking lot? -Of course.

Is someone afraid of the dark?

A bit. I read poems aloud to myself. It gives me strength.

"There is no other strength than inner strength."

"And it comes from the outside." That's from Ekel�f.

"And like the magical name your parents gave you

to protect you against the darkness and the lack of self,

to distinguish you from a thousand almost identical to you.

Yet you are as nameless as the night and the dark.

In truth, you are no one."

"In truth, you are no one."

Have you been at dance class this whole time?

Yeah.

Is that mine?

Yes.

You were supposed to read it there.

-Is that the only copy? -Yes.

It's mine.

How are you holding up?

I'm sorry for ...

... lying to you.

All the times I was at Johanna's

and told you I was with Jenny or at dance class.

That's alright.

Come here.

It's okay.

-You're not angry? -No, I'm not angry.

Why would I be angry?

It's so wonderful, Johanne.

It's so wonderful, what you wrote.

All you've been through that I knew nothing about ...

But I have to ask. Everything you've written:

Is it true?

It's about me. It's about my life.

-But is it true? -What do you mean?

Did anything happen that you didn't want?

Yes!

She didn't want me!

Did you expect to end up together?

Yes!

The second to last time I saw here, we were so close.

And I'm sure she wanted it just as badly as I did.

We'd been sitting there, chatting and knitting for ages.

Johanna's place was always so warm, as if all the heaters were on.

I loved it, since it's always a bit cold at home.

But ... The heat also made me drowsy.

And instead of suggesting I go home,

Johanna said I could just take a nap on the sofa.

While she made tea.

So I just lay there and followed her with my eyes.

While she walked around the flat.

And that was so lovely.

Because in that very moment, it felt like I belonged there.

And I was convinced that she was in love with me too.

You feel it, don't you? In your body?

When someone doesn't want you to leave.

It's unmistakeable.

You can feel it ...

... on your skin and in your body.

How everything trembles and falls apart.

And I could tell she felt the same way.

That was the first time we were completely ...

We kind of melted together.

But ...

What's the matter?

It's nothing.

Did something happen?

There are so many things in life you want to share with someone, but you can't.

You can tell me.

You are so sweet.

In a way, it feels like you know me better than ...

... people I've known for years.

But certain things you simply have to ...

That you have to deal with on your own.

I think it might be best if you leave now.

-Are you certain? -Yes, I am.

I need some time for myself.

I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to leave.

I just wanted to ...

I just wanted to hold her.

She was so distraught. And I was just as distraught.

Both because I could see how much pain she was in,

but also because I was powerless to help her.

It was awful.

I sent her a message as soon as I'd left,

saying that I was thinking about her with lots of hearts.

Said she could call me anytime and that she was my favourite person in the world.

It was so awful, because ...

When I was there, it felt like we were a couple.

Then, out of the blue, it was over.

I've never felt anything like that, Mum.

But then she replied to my texts.

She said she'd loved having me there and wanted me to come back the next day.

But the next day, she cancelled.

She said something had come up.

And the next day, she didn't show up at school, so I called her.

It was really nice. She was glad I'd called.

She'd come down with a stomach bug and needed to rest.

And she was also on her period, so she was a bit ...

A bit under the weather.

We messaged a lot in between.

Words of encouragement and stuff.

I wrote, "Get well, sweetie."

But I also remember writing,

"I care about you."

I instantly regretted that.

But then she replied straight away,

saying she cared about me too, accompanied by lots of hearts,

said it felt good to know I was looking after her.

And I replied, saying I could come to hers if she needed help with anything.

Or if she wanted me to cook for her.

But she didn't.

This was just before Easter.

And we went to the cabin for Easter.

And then I got sick too. I was devastated.

I couldn't understand why she didn't text me back.

Well, she replied, but kept it very brief.

I told her I was at the cabin and asked how she was doing.

I told her I was sick as well.

To which she replied, "You poor thing, get better soon."

And I wrote back, "You poor thing, us poor things."

I was picturing us being sick together.

Even though we were apart.

I sent her a picture one sunny day.

And then she sent me a photo back.

It was of her and a girlfriend.

They were taking a stroll in town.

She hadn't said that she was better, so I was just surprised.

I started picturing her

doing things and meeting people, without me.

It felt like we were drifting apart.

So I messaged her saying that's how I felt.

And she replied that I shouldn't worry about that.

And then I sent her a photo of my knitting.

Asked her if she could help me with it. To which she replied, "Of course."

She wrote, "Of course!", with an exclamation mark and smileys.

So we planned that I'd visit her the following Tuesday.

It was such a relief to see her again.

So good to see you!

And at first, it felt like nothing had changed

since the last time we saw each other.

As if we just picked up where we left off.

But then it wasn't the same after all.

She was different. She was more ...

... restless and silly.

It's so different here. Have you changed anything?

Nah, I just got rid of all the junk.

And she kept telling jokes I didn't get.

Maybe she was teasing me for sending her so many texts over Easter.

Well, she didn't exactly tease me, but I was left with the impression

that she thought I'd been a bit much.

But the weirdest thing was that she ...

... she was so busy tidying that she didn't look at me.

She was talking a lot, she just didn't look at me.

And her talking also seemed restless, kind of warm and animated.

Maybe a little.

Like you get sometimes.

When something is wrong or bothering you, and you try to pretend everything is fine.

You're not quite there. And she wasn't either.

Didn't you say your grandmother also knits?

Then the doorbell rang, and she hurried to the door.

And it was another woman.

At first, I thought it was the woman from the photo she'd sent me over Easter.

But it wasn't.

And I could tell that Johanna knew she was coming.

That she'd been invited.

She acted like it too.

The way she came into the flat.

As if she hadn't been there before.

As if she'd been invited for dinner or something.

Dressed up and wearing make-up. She was clearly invited.

-I'd forgot you live in the atelier. -I always do.

This is Johanne. She's one of my students.

Johanne and Johanna. That's cute.

This is Froydis.

I'm not sure what to call you.

Aren't I also a student of sorts?

Froydis studies at the Academy. The same course I did.

Are you giving her private lessons?

No, I'm just helping her with her knitting.

But Johanne was just leaving. I'm going to put on something else.

-Would you like a glass of wine? -I'd love one.

Johanna is really good at knitting.

She has so many lovely jumpers.

-You've got so many lovely jumpers! -Thanks!

Are you ... You're in high school, right?

Uh ... yes.

I told you she was in my class.

Oh yeah, that's right.

Johanna used to be my teacher as well.

There are more of us.

I love your hair.

I wish I had hair like yours.

-Do you need help with anything? -No.

I felt so stupid. Like a child.

The way she touched my hair.

She was just so mean, so condescending.

I just ...

I just left without a word.

It felt part of me died just then.

Have you ever felt like that? Felt completely lifeless?

But you have to keep on living?

Which seems as impossible as it is pointless.

Because without her, nothing matters.

I realize this has been painful, but ...

You're going to be okay.

You will find someone else.

I want one love.

Not another.

It was actually a relief.

No longer having to hide this from Mum.

But it did mean that what I'd written was no longer a secret.

Which made me less afraid of passing it on.

So when Mum and Nan suggested showing it to Nan's editor,

no strings attached, it only felt exciting.

-When was this? -It was last autumn.

We, the audience, were standing down on the path,

and these steps were packed with dancers,

and there was this golden glow.

Which made me think of, you know,

Jacob's Ladder from the Bible.

Jacob dreamed that he saw a gigantic ladder leading up to heaven.

There was this inner longing.

-A longing for God. -Yes, maybe!

Whatever God may be.

What people picture and long for varies so much,

but it was really sexy.

And at the same time, it was strangely heart-warming.

I think that was due to the dancers' complete lack of vanity.

They ... just appeared like normal people.

I think everyone in the audience ...

I think they felt comforted.

And that ... Pay attention to this transition ...

That was the same feeling I got when I read your granddaughter's book.

It made me happy.

My life suddenly seemed so simple.

I felt an urge to go outside, be more present in the world.

That's wonderful. Few books have that effect on you.

-None of mine, at least. -But you've never written that way.

So vulnerable and brutally honest. Because writing like that,

so candid, so simple, without any reservations? That's incredibly difficult.

That's also what gives it ... pathos. Because it definitely has that.

But it never feels clammy.

It just feels nice.

Turns of phrase like ...

"Secret skin". How does she come up with that?

I think she has that from me. Well, not from me, but from Lars.

Gyllensten. I quote him from time to time.

"Thigh skin, belly skin, shoulder skin, secret skin ...

... breast skin, arm skin, thigh skin ...

Stomach skin against ... she skin, skin on skin, secret on secret ...

Holes."

I recite it sometimes. So I guess she's heard it from me.

What about you?

Are you writing these days?

I may have another book in me.

Lately, I've been ... I've rarely thought about it ...

But lately, it's become this paralyzing thought.

Who is interested in what I write? I'm barely interested myself.

So when you talk about this honesty, writing about yourself like that ...

I get paralyzed by the thought that I haven't really ... lived much.

I just live vicariously through the characters in my poems.

I wish I'd lived more.

Fallen in love more. Slept with more men. Slept with lots and lots and lots of ...

But it's a bit late for regrets now.

Nan often spoke about all the things she wished she'd done differently.

Maybe there's a consolation in being able to express your yearnings, your dreams.

Because if it's true that what's on your mind comes out in your dreams,

I think Nan mostly dreamt about books she never wrote.

As well as sex. And God.

What do you imagine God looks like?

I don't know. Something ... safe.

I think he would have to be Swedish.

A blonde, friendly, naked Swede perched on the top of the ladder.

Legs spread, flaunting his stuff for anyone who's interested.

Generously offering himself up. That would've been fantastic.

Then write about that. It's not too late.

But as far as Johanne is concerned, why don't you tell her I said

I'd be happy to sit down and talk to her.

Could this be something you'd publish?

Absolutely.

Here you go.

Do you think your editor liked it?

I don't know, really. She said some nice things, but whether it was ...

-Enough to want to publish it? -That's hard to say.

We didn't really talk that much about that.

Be careful, this is frightfully hot. Maybe I should top it up with cold water.

I guess it'll be fine.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

I can give you her number, and you can call her.

If you would like to be a writer.

"A writer."

Well, if you want to turn it into a book.

-I thought it was a book? -You're against it.

I'm nether for nor against it.

Neither, really.

At first, you didn't want anyone to read it. Not even me.

You said that you'd written it to preserve it for yourself.

You were almost hysterical when I printed it out to read.

-What made you change your mind? -You told me how good it was.

That you forgot it was about me. That it swept you off your feet.

Did I say that? No, really?

You did! You did too, Mum.

You did say that. You definitely said it to me.

-I never said that! -Leave me out of this.

The only thing I said ...

... was that you write really well. You could be a writer if you wanted to.

But Johanne, if this gets published, lots of people will read it.

They will have opinions, and you'll get critics and reviews.

And the reviews might be harsh, so I just think ...

-I'm worried you'd lose yourself. -I wouldn't worry about that.

I think this is a relatable story, and I think it could do rather well.

Please, I can practically see the pound signs in your eyes.

-What? -Yes.

You're only thinking profits. The first thing you thought was "money".

-I'm not thinking about money! -"Can we sell this?"

I think Johanne has written a good book, and we should take that seriously.

She's created something we like, and we need to figure out what to do with it.

Listen, this is a debut novel!

It might not sell a million copies.

-Of course not. -Exactly.

Oh my God, you're so prejudiced.

I'm just saying that I think this ...

... could become a pretty good book,

and one which might have broad appeal.

But if it does, it's because it's topical!

And because it's a relatable story.

It's a story of queer awakening. It could be important to queer people.

-Queer awakening? -That's what it is.

Am I queer just because I fell in love with Johanna?

It sure looks that way. But you should be proud!

Proud?

That's what makes this book so important.

That's an essential aspect of it, if you ask me.

This book could help young people, because ...

The truth is that each and every one of us ...

All of us have a story. Everyone has a story.

In that sense, our lives are potential businesses,

because stories are what people crave, or what they need.

We need to tell and hear each other's stories.

Stories that give us courage, comfort, excitement and joy,

which reflect our own lives. People are not so different.

We struggle with a lot of the same things.

In that way, stories can help us process things and move on.

You don't think it's a tad explicit?

Yes! And that's a good thing.

Learning to describe sex and sexuality with no chaste reservations,

that's something we need. In my opinion.

Jesus.

All of a sudden I'm the one pushing for you to publish your book, and that ...

I'm not trying to ... That's completely up to you, Johanne.

You need to think it over one, two, three and ten times, as Nan likes to say.

Because this could turn into a bumpy ride.

We also have to decide whether she's ready to ...

And you need to talk to Johanna.

-You have to let her read it. -No!

-Yes, you have to. -No!

No way!

No publisher is going to touch it unless she's read it.

She'll get to read it anyway. You don't have a choice.

No, that's ...

-I can't. -Then that's settled.

I really think we should wait. You're only seventeen.

You've proved that you can write. Now you can write something else.

Or you can write about this again, once you've got a bit of distance.

"Distance", I didn't want distance.

What I really wanted was Johanna. Even now.

I could feel it when Mum said her name.

A longing in the pit of my stomach.

That night, I read my text once more.

Mainly because of that.

And I felt it flaring up again as I was reading.

It felt like reliving it.

And I thought ...

Maybe Johanna should get to read it after all.

So she'd know exactly how I felt.

I thought maybe she'd be impressed.

Maybe she'd see me in a new light.

I'd written about her in a kind way.

It was written as a love letter, more or less.

Maybe it would make an impression.

And maybe, in a few years, when I was over twenty and a published writer ...

Maybe if we met again then ...

... she'd realize that we were meant to be.

Here's your book.

-It's so good. -Thank you.

I simply couldn't face her.

So Mum got in touch on my behalf.

She called Johanna, told it like it was, and sent her the script.

And after she'd read it, they arranged to meet.

-You didn't go for the cinnamon bun? -I can't eat that by myself.

-Of course you can! -Oh dear, I spilled some. Sorry.

-That's fine. -Happens.

Well ... I don't know ...

I must admit, I've been dreading this meeting.

Have you? And why is that?

I don't know what you're thinking. Do you intend to press charges?

Press charges? No, that's ...

-Or press charges against the school? -That was hot.

Well, I can see how this may look.

As if I've gone way too far.

You're not supposed to fraternize with students.

But in my defence, I'm not a teacher.

-You're not a teacher? -I have no pedagogy degree.

I went to the art academy. I'm actually a visual artist.

Which is no excuse, of course. Just a weak explanation.

I must say that I didn't see anything wrong in letting Johanne visit me.

But having read ... Well, now ...

You don't need to worry about us pressing charges.

I've talked to her. I know nothing happened.

Okay ... Okay, that's ...

That's such a relief to hear.

I don't have children, but I can only imagine

what I would do if my daughter had written something like that.

But that's very ... mature of you, to take it like that.

Yes, well ...

I must say it felt weird to read it, since I had no idea Johanne felt this way.

Surely you must have?

-No. -But, I mean ...

When you read it, it feels very ... You know ...

You must've realised she had a crush on you.

Absolutely not! Not at first.

Then, eventually, maybe a little ...

She wanted to learn how to knit, which was nice.

But that she was in love?

When I react like this, it's mostly on behalf of Johanne.

Surely you were a bit taken with her as well?

No?

No.

When I read it, I find it very hard to believe ...

Maybe it's wrong to say I didn't pick up on it at all.

Johanne is a very tactile girl.

But in more of a childish, friendly way.

That's how I interpreted it. I think that's an important distinction.

You know what I mean, right? Non-sexual intimacy between girls.

And you get that I can't sit here and tell you that I was attracted to her.

-But were you? -If I was?

Maybe a little bit towards the end.

When you're being lavished with attention like that ...

But then I cut it off. As soon as I realised what was going on.

-But then you did realize it? -Well, it's like she wrote.

Just like it says in the text.

And I had just met someone ...

I just need you to know that nothing happened.

No one crossed that line, even if it may appear that way.

There are some ... very intimate depictions.

Yes ... Yes.

Very sexual.

Which made me wonder.

The depictions of my body were very graphic.

"This must come from Johanne's imagination."

Because she writes in parts about her dreams and longings.

But that said, reading it felt a bit like being abused.

-Abused? -Yes.

All the descriptions of what she felt while sitting next to me, stroking my arm ...

It gave me the sweats. "Did she abuse me?"

Abuse is a big word to use, considering the circumstances.

Yes, and I'm not in any position to press charges against her.

But I think it's possible to be abused without realizing it.

But if you were unaware that she was infatuated, how can that be abuse?

It's quite obvious that she took advantage of me.

Well, she was in love.

But that doesn't give her the right to do whatever she likes.

I know I'm biased, but I've raised Johanne to have respect for others.

-And she does have that. -Yes, but I think that ...

No, I'm sure you're right.

To be honest, I can actually relate a little.

It's a beautiful thing to discover those feelings within yourself.

Then there are parts I miss, things she has left out.

But then again, infatuation feeds on its own self-centredness, right?

You're more obsessed with your own feelings than with the object of your desire.

I have this thing where I say the Lord's Prayer when I'm nervous.

Or scared or excited.

And I do remember doing that when Johanne sat next to me stroking my arm.

But she's left that out. And I find that strange.

Because ... that makes it seem like ...

Like I only exist through her eyes.

And not in myself.

But Johanna, that's simply not true.

I did hear your prayer.

It moved me deeply that you dared to share something so private and intimate with me.

Leaving it out was a token of my respect for you.

It would've felt like a betrayal of trust.

I left out many other things as well. And be thankful for that!

Many readers may think this was written by a child

who doesn't understand what sex is.

One who thinks sex is a mix of bubble gum, cuddly toys and soft boyband skin.

Well, let them think that. It's all for the better.

But you know I never saw it like that. I knew what sex is.

And what I did to you, and you to me.

-Are we done here? -Yes, we're done.

I wanted to make sure you're OK with it being published.

Oh yes, by all means.

Tell Johanne I said hi and good luck.

Maybe it would do her good to hear that she's not my type?

I did really like her, of course. And she has written, well ...

Let's just say she's better at writing than knitting.

My knitting isn't that bad.

I just didn't enjoy it.

And that part about me not being your type?

As if that excuses everything you let happen?

I don't believe you.

I think you felt that I wanted you.

And that you couldn't resist.

Isn't that what everyone dreams of? Someone who wants you.

Because what are you, if nobody wants you? You're no one.

You're no one.

And when I think about Mum,

fumbling about online where everyone's self-obsessed and self-indulgent.

I know that she's dating.

But when she comes home, I can tell that it hardly left her feeling irreplaceable.

Nan doesn't even try to meet anyone.

She just tries to find solace in words.

But no matter how well she penetrates the language,

the words will never embrace her. As she puts it.

She no longer dreams of being irreplaceable to someone.

All she wants, is one last embrace from another human being.

From a body.

I think she dreams about that constantly.

And honestly, it's what I dream about too.

The book was published a while ago, and Johanna has got married and moved.

She has a partner, and I have this book. I guess that's all.

It was pretty well received.

Well, at least one favourable review.

And a few less favourable.

But I think it's selling.

Not in huge numbers, but ...

It's just a debut novel, as Nan likes to say.

She and Mum are very proud.

Aren't you a little proud too?

Aren't you a little proud of the book?

Proud?

I'm not sure. Proud ...

I did write a book, but then again, so have many others.

I guess I'd been expecting a bit more.

And when I look at the book now ... I don't know.

I don't really feel that it has much to do with me, the way it turned out.

Why have you come to see me?

Mum follows you on Twitter.

Your mum?

She loves your tweets about mental health.

I don't get how you manage to express yourself so nuanced in so few words.

I had to write a whole novel.

I've deactivated my Twitter account. Long ago.

I see. Well, Mum and Nan thought it would be a good idea.

That I speak to someone, after everything I've been through.

Everything you've been through? You've fallen in love and published a book.

Yes?

When you put it like that, you make it sound incredibly mundane.

Well, it is.

At least falling in love. That's something everyone experiences.

It's a part of life.

So you don't think I should've come here?

I'm not saying that, but I think we have to figure out what you need help with.

Yes.

-I guess I feel a bit ... empty. -Empty?

And I have for a good while.

Can you tell me a bit more about that?

Well, I'm wondering ...

I'm wondering, where do I go from here?

Now that this is over.

Before, when it was just mine, when it was just the flash drive ...

I still have it, by the way.

Then I kept the feelings alive, in a way.

Even though I knew we could never be together.

It was painful as hell, but it also felt good.

Feeling something so strongly.

Now that the book has been published, it's just a book. And I keep thinking ...

If I fall in love again, it'll just be the same thing.

It will be unrequited.

Do I write a book about that as well?

You think that it will never be reciprocal?

No. And I actually have a boyfriend now.

That's nice enough.

He likes to get naked and lie down on his belly.

He wants me to look at his ass.

I think that's quite nice.

He makes himself so very naked and vulnerable.

Although I'm sure he want it to be sexy, not vulnerable.

Maybe it would have been sexy to someone else.

Because I ... I don't know.

And he loves taking photos of us.

It's always the same pose. He's behind me with his arm around my waist.

The Titanic pose, he calls it.

I guess that's his idea of what love should look like.

And what do you think love looks like?

-I don't have a fixed image. -No?

I know what love feels like, but not what it looks like.

That doesn't really interest me.

Would you like to come back for another session?

-Oh, are we finished already? -Already?

You've been here for ninety minutes. That's a while.

Do you ever feel like telling people to just get a grip?

No.

-Do you want another appointment? -I'm not sure.

It's so expensive.

-Why is it so expensive? -Good question.

Going to therapy is demanding, right?

You have to contribute and work hard to get better.

Well, some would argue that people work harder if it costs more.

That the high cost is a motivating factor.

But you must also have something to offer?

You're a nice guy and all, it's not that.

But the way you speak ...

It's like you're trying to put everything in a system.

You make my life so tiny. It shrinks when I talk about it like you do.

That's not the intention.

The intention is the exact opposite.

And you decide what you want to talk about.

Usually, people have therapy to get help figuring themselves out.

But "figuring myself out" ...

I mean, that changes constantly.

Will I have to come here for the rest of my life?

No, no.

Hardly for the rest of your life.

-Hi! -Hi.

-Sorry I'm so late. -No worries. How was it?

It was alright.

-Shall we go meet the others? -Yeah.

Shit. I left something.

I have to go get it. You go ahead, and I'll catch up.

Okay. Don't take too long.

Hi.

Are you ... Didn't we meet at Johanna's?

-You were the one with the nice hair. -Oh yeah.

How are you? Or ... stupid question, I guess.

-Do you have a session? -Now? No.

There are only shrinks in this hallway.

I just finished a session.

Me too. Just a minute ago.

-It's a bit tiring. -Yes.

And I'm not sure how much it helps.

At least not for me.

But then, how much did the birds of Vienna benefit from Freud's practice?

-What? -It's just something my nan says.

I think it's from a poem.

It popped into my head while watching my shrink trying to find the right words.

You look a bit older.

You look younger.

It was really nice running into you.

I mean, it was ...

... a bit tiring.

Are you in touch with Johanna? Is she still your teacher?

No. No, there's no ...

No.

Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?

-Now? -Yes.

Yes. I'd like that.

Okay.

Were you ...? It looked like you were going in.

I was just ... It doesn't matter.

It was nothing.

Let's go.

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