This is it. It’s over. Today marks exactly 11 months since the day I set foot in Oslo Gardemoen. Today is also my last day in Horten. Happy anniversary. Farwell. We’ve come full circle.

I’ve already said goodbye to Joakim. Now I’ve got the TV set to NRK 1: sandvolleyball verdensmesterskap i Stavanger. It feels like a throwback to the first days here, when we watched the OL matches. The world doesn’t stop, but it revolves round and round; I suppose life is like that too.

I wonder what Pappa’s last bad joke would be. I wonder what would be the last thing we would laugh at. I wonder what is going to happen tomorrow on Bones.

A few hours ago Alexander Rybak came on TV, and I realized that might have been the last time I got to see “Fairytale” on public television. As overplayed as it is, even it has snuck its way into my heart: a little something uniquely Norwegian, a little something belonging only to us: 2008/2009. A little something that only I—and perhaps the other partakers on this journey—will know, love and appreciate.

This has been an incredible year, and I’m glad to have finally experienced what I’ve always dreamed about—if only for a short 330 days: a complete family, a dad. I don’t know why, but it’s always so hard to say how I genuinely feel, and I don’t really know if I have it in me to tell him all the thing I want to say when I leave.

An uncomfortable pressure at the back of my throat is pushing me to stop writing, so I will.

And a parting question: I know I will come back, but will I come “hjem?”

Det har vært en stund siden jeg har skrivi no, og grunnen er at jeg har vært ganske opptatt. Time—or the lack of it, has a way of pressing you into doing things you otherwise never would have thought about doing.

Last week was St. Hans (or Midsummer, longest days in the year), so I’ve been taking advantage of the good weather and long days and have been out with family and friends. Spent the most time along Borrestranda, with a final rendezvous with Bjørn Einar and Henning in Nøtterøy and Yanzi in Drammen.

Dro til Oslo forigårs for å feire Skeive Dager med Xenia, Eric, Valérie, og av alle mennesker—Yuri. (Han fikk en ganske spesiell erfaring, tror jeg, haha. Men det som egentlig var ironisk var at han dro til Oslo helt tilfeldig uten å vite at det var Skeive Dager og fikk å se på paraden mens jeg ikke rakk det. Uffa meg.) På kvelden prøvte vi å komme inn til én av de skeive nattklubber uten mye suksess på grunn av aldersgrensene, så til slutt sa vi “ha det” til Xenia og Eric, kjøpte oss Ben & Jerry’s og så på Queer as Folk hos Valérie. Sjølv om jeg er litt skuffa var det likevæl en veldig hyggelig og alreit natt.

Yesterday the family had a Farewell party for me; a lot of family and cousins, and a few close friends. After dinner, all us youngins went to play sand volleyball by Hortenshallen: it was one of the most memorable evenings I’ve had.
I think that departing feeling is finally starting to hit me. It was very sad to say goodbye to Bestemor.

Today, I am packing. I feel bad that I am leaving so many clothes behind but it made me realize what horrible taste I had…and what terrible taste Mom still has.

So many thoughts and emotions.

Removing the pin from Katherine’s letter on my wall.

A sudden urge to take a bus ride to Andebu. Pour voir, pour voir comment il vivait. Pour regarder les mêmes bâtiments que, peut-être, il regardait, et marcher parmi les mêmes rues qu’il marchait.

Packing. This shirt doesn’t smell like me. Perhaps some lingering scent from a previous rendezvous. Un uomo norvegese…o forse tedesco.

Lying on the living room couch, room dimly lit by a singular lamp. A comforting orange cast on the ceiling. Tori Amos’ Gold Dust playing; I’ve been here so many times before. The familiarity of it all: the fireplace, the cognac on the glass table, the flickering eyes and that emerging, probing question of whether or not you’re falling in love then and there. E poi, that moment of closing in, brushing lips, moist and tender. It’s a different setting, but the same warmth, the same feeling. And it feels so real. I think I could love him, but that would be stupid.

“Det ordner seg for snille gutter.” Det må.

L’autre, il n’avait que vingt ans quand ils se sont rencontrés. And everything after that fell into place accordingly: even the drama seems to have written itself out a painful yet perfect addendum to their story. Jeg skal fylle det samme nummeret neste år. But will I be so lucky? So fortunate? Blessed? To think, that I could meet “The One” next year—but alas, non sarà lui! (You can’t blame me for thinking. Vi kan ikke være forelska av noen som vi aldri har møtt. Vi kan bare trekke fra våre erfaringer og skape forventninger derfra.) Allora, a guy can hope.

Tengo tanto amor que dar, ¿pero cuando él me va a encontrar?

Io sono qui, staring at a glowing rectangular box. And every time I look at the trees outside my window they seem to be merging together…but they never do. And as much as I crave our union, any union, it’s only an illusion.

Kunne. Det kunne vært annerledes. In another world, another lifetime, kunne han vært min?