© Floor Joanne

13 MAART 2025

I met Sami while waiting for the bus. He asked me for my number and I gave it to him. Not long after, I received a text. It felt like Sami wanted me to hold space for him. Although I didn’t know why he did, I tried my best to do so.

I asked Sami if he wanted to join me to the Bevrijdingsfestival. While walking there, Sami asked for my birthday and he turned out to be born on the exact same day. He opened his wallet. A strip of pills fell out.

Testosterone, anti-depressants and sleeping pills just to name a few. ‘I feel masculine from time to time,’ I responded. ‘I feel sad from time to time and sometimes I can’t sleep.’ Sami listened.

He had to be back before curfew, could I please remember the time. He told me he lived in rehab. I asked Sami why. He told me that during the pandemic, he had started using drugs, just to kill the time. I might have done the same.

When it was almost time, I walked Sami to the bus. I would visit him in rehab and when I was there, he lent me a book. I told him I would drop it off at the mini-library near the Betonbos. He didn’t want me to.

My time with Sami reminded me of how two people, having been through roughly the same struggles, can end up in wildly different places. Sami was a mirror, showing an overmedicated, arguably unfree version of myself. I say overmedicated, because it was incredibly difficult to converse with Sami.