The sea of people at Schiphol airport was endless. Hasty phone-calls, crying children, and excited chatter echoed through the baggage claim area, and everyone seemed to be in a hurry to catch their train or bus. People shot past Nick left and right to snatch their suitcase from the conveyer belt and dash.

They had places to be. Nick didn't. Not really. If he didn't show up at the apartment he rented for the semester, the landlord wouldn't have any issues finding another student to take his place. Nick would only lose his deposit, which was his parents' money. They had paid for everything; the plane ticket, the apartment, his school, and his football classes. What a waste.

The only reason Nick didn't slouch down on a bench and just sat there all afternoon was not wanting to explain to his parents why he didn't go to his apartment. Why he didn't go through all the necessary motions while he was the one who had requested studying abroad for a semester.

Supposably, playing tourist in another country was an enriching and eye-opening experience which taught you a lot about yourself. But on his way out of Schiphol airport, Nick Walsh swore he wasn't going to be a dumb tourist during his time in the Netherlands. He wasn't like other people who fled home and went abroad for a couple of months to 'find themselves' during the 'enriching' experience.

For starters: 'finding yourself' western style usually involved disrespectfully touching a Buddhist monk's head, and snatching kids away from their mom for a dumb Instagram picture. Basically, it meant act like a complete douchebag once you crossed the border and come back with bullshit stories how meditating on the Himalayas surrounded by goat herders who only owned the clothes on their back really taught you the value of life.

Nick wasn't going to touch anyone's head. Or snatch children to look good on his social media feeds. And if he needed to see poor people to realise how fortunate he was, he only needed to step outside and travel to the inner city at home.

All Nick was going to do was go to college and follow lectures. Maybe he'd hit the club and act like a drunk idiot every once in a while, but that was it.

My reasons for leaving home are absolutely different, Nick told himself again as he boarded the train alongside all the other passengers and their hefty suitcases.

He didn't want to find himself; he wanted others to forget about him.

Going to the Netherlands for the semester was a reset of sorts. Here, in the train to the South, the faces around Nick were neutral and unfamiliar. He was just a passing face in the crowd to them. He'd keep to himself at college too.

The train wasn't super crowded, and Nick took a seat at the window. When the train left the airport's station and they zoomed out of the dark tunnel, he snapped a quick picture and sent it to his parents to show he'd landed safely. Then he made himself comfortable in his seat and stared outside through the window.

Nick had it all planned out. The big disappearance. He would only take the bare minimum of pictures, text the bare minimum of words to keep his friends satisfied. Slowly, he'd stop contacting them all together until they forgot he existed even after he went home. He'd drop everyone except for his best friend, Sem. But Sem understood he needed space and would leave him alone.

"Mommy! Mommy, look!" a kid screamed when the train took off from the next station, Bijlmer ArenA.

The kid pressed his face against the window. His mom immediately pulled him away.

"That's dirty, Tim, don't press your face against the glass," she scolded him.

"But mommy, look," Tim said, squishing his grubby fingers against the window instead. "It's a football stadium! Can we go there? I want to play!"

"No Tim, we don't have time to go there."

"But mooom!"

Nick turned away from the little boy. Tim reminded him of himself when he was four? Five? About his age.

If only I'd gotten injured.

If Nick had his choices taken away from him and it wasn't his fault he sucked at football, he wouldn't have felt like shit. No, he still would've felt like shit, but he wouldn't have felt like a complete loser. He wouldn't have had to board a plane to escape the sympathetic looks.

How had he not noticed the admiration others had for his dedication to football had slowly turned into pity over the years?

He was too old to become a professional football player, and everyone knew. Nick's chances had dwindled further each passing year, yet, nobody had warned him when he chose to bury his head in the sand, continued pumping all his time into football, and comforted himself with stories of players who weren't scouted until the age of sixteen, seventeen, twenty-three, and still made it.

They were the exception. Nick wasn't. He realised that now.

With white knuckles from squeezing too hard, Nick put his headphones on to block the other passengers out. AC/DC was on full blast until he reached his destination.

He shouldn't have picked a football-infested country like the Netherlands to flee to. There seemed to be stadiums in every damn city. On the way to the apartment, which was supposed to be within 'walking distance' of the train station, Nick had to pass another stadium. He gritted his teeth. Great. With his luck, his apartment was right on the football-supporters route.

Nick arrived on the doorstep of the address he was given via e-mail sweaty, jet-lagged, and already utterly done with everything. But he knew he should at least act like he was in a good mood to meet the landlord.

After taking a few deep breaths and wiping the frown off his face, Nick pressed the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately, and a middle-aged, greying man with huge teeth greeted him with a smile.

"Hello there! You must be Nick Walsh, freshly arrived in our country today."

"Yeah, that's me," Nick replied, immediately noting the man had a funny accent. People back home had already told Nick Dutch people sounded funny when they spoke English.

"You're right on time," the man said. "Welcome, Nick. I'm the landlord. You can call me Daan. Here, let me take those."

Daan ushered Nick inside and all but yanked the suitcases out of his hands, before placing them into the tiniest elevator Nick had ever seen. There was literally no room for Nick to squeeze himself in too with his two suitcases taking all the space.

Daan was, evidently, used to this problem. He leaned into the elevator, pressed the button and pulled his arm back. Nick's stuff was on its way up solo, while Daan strode towards the spiralling staircase and gestured Nick to follow.

"So, Nick." Daan looked down at Nick over his shoulder. "What brought you to our little, always rainy country?"

"Studying," Nick lied with a shrug. "I wanted the experience of living abroad, but not too far away, and in a place where I know the education level is decent."

Daan accepted this answer with a nod. "Good, good. What kind of study do you do?"

They arrived on the third floor and Daan sprinted towards the elevator without awaiting Nick's answer. He stuck his feet in-between the doors which were already closing again, and then pulled Nick's bags out. Daan didn't wait for Nick, so Nick had to hurry after his bags and the quick-on-his-feet landlord.

"I'm here for International Business," Nick told Daan's backside.

"Ah, good, good," Daan said jovially, but Nick could tell he wasn't really interested since he didn't ask any more questions. Disinterest suited Nick just fine.

Daan stopped next to a bold, red door and took out a key. "You seem like a nice guy, Nick. And I'd like to think I'm a nice landlord too, so there aren't many rules. Just don't make any noise after eleven, don't smoke inside, and don't leave a mess. Otherwise, have fun!"

"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind," Nick said. "But there's another person here, right? The ad said I would share."

Daan nodded. "Oh, yeah, that's right! I almost forgot to tell you. There's another boy your age. His name's Blake. He arrived yesterday. Also seems like a nice kid. A bit out there but, hey, no judgement here. Thankfully, we live in a country where people can love whoever they want, right?"

Daan rang the doorbell, then fumbled with the keys while Nick frowned.

His name is Blake? A bit out there? We can love who we want? That all sounded familiar. Eerily familiar. But there was no way it could be that Blake; it would be too coincidental. There was no way.

Daan pushed the door open, and there was someone in the hallway. Someone with dark make-up above his eyes and wearing tight skinny jeans.

Nick's eyes went wide. "Blake?"