The adventures of Lisa-Marie and Yasmin

I was tired.

Not just tired like after a short night’s sleep. Not that “five more minutes” kind of tired that you could shake off with a blanket, a pillow, and a little willpower.

No.

I was tired to the core.

And happy.

So happy that even the tiredness felt gentle.

The night before, I’d talked with Yasmin for a long time. Actually, we’d both been exhausted for ages. Actually, we should have been sleeping. Actually, if my body had been smart, it would have just decided at some point: Okay, enough of Fehmarn for today, let’s shut everything down now.

But my head was full of images.

The bed under the skylight. The silver mask. The white feathers. The cherry tree. The stone wall. Mario’s gaze. Beatrice’s arm around my shoulder. Yasmin’s eyes when she realized I was really crying and not just playing the Lisa-style dramatic “oh my God, I’m so emotional” act.

I had cried a lot.

A whole lot.

So much that Yasmin later looked at me with that quiet, concerned way of hers that never became loud, but stood out all the more for it.

“Your eyes are still all red,” she said.

I’d tried to act casual.

“It’s my new look. Emotional glamour.”

Yasmin was silent.

Damn.

When Yasmin was silent, it was often worse than any answer.

So I sighed and looked at her.

“I’m fine,” I said more quietly. “Really. They were tears of joy.”

“I know,” she replied.

“But?”

“But happiness can also be a lot.”

That was true.

It was so true, in fact, that for a moment I couldn’t think of anything to say. And when Lisa-Marie couldn’t think of anything to say, the situation was usually serious. Or beautiful. Or both—which, in the last few days, had surprisingly often been the same thing.

We lay side by side as the old country house around us slowly fell silent. Somewhere, wood creaked. Outside, the wind blew. I couldn’t see the sea, but I knew it was there. Fehmarn had this special way of not disappearing completely, even in the darkness.

Yasmin had become quieter since her own photo shoot. No less smart. No less Yasmin. But more at ease. As if, since saturday, she no longer felt the need to run every feeling through her inner translator before letting it in.

I liked this new Yasmin.

She was still her. Just a little more settled.

Maybe we both were.

Just before I fell asleep, I suddenly felt a moment of complete clarity. One of those moments when you don’t think about what to say, but just know it has to be said.

“Yasmin?”

“Hm?”

“I’m grateful.”

She turned her head toward me.

“For Fehmarn?”

“For everything.” I swallowed. My voice was dangerously close to those stupid tears again, but this time I just let it sound that way. “For Mario. For this adventure. For Nathalie, because she sent us off even though she would have loved to be here herself. For Beatrice. For the photos. For everything.”

Yasmin said nothing.

I looked at her.

“But most of all, I’m grateful that you were there.”

Her eyes softened.

“Lisa…”

“No, seriously.” I took a breath. “I couldn’t have asked for anyone more than you. No one. You were there. The whole time. Even when you were just watching. Even when you stayed silent because you were far too smart. I’m just glad to have you by my side.”

Yasmin didn’t smile right away.

Maybe because she had to swallow first, too.

Then she took my hand.

“I’m glad, too,” she said.

That was all it took.

With a flood of images in my head and thoughts of Beatrice and Nathalie, I finally fell asleep. Not gracefully. Not coolly. Probably with my mouth slightly open and my face tear-stained.

But very, very happy.

The next morning, Mario was awake early again, of course.

Of course.

By now I was convinced that this man had some kind of secret contract with dawn. Maybe he didn’t even get up. Maybe he was simply picked up personally by the first light and ushered into the day.

He was quiet.

I could tell even in my half-sleep. No frantic footsteps, no loud clearing away. Just muffled movements, careful packing, doors being closed slowly. He had noticed that Yasmin and I were still asleep, and so he turned even the tidying up into a kind of whisper.

By the time I finally woke up properly, all the bags, suitcases, and boxes were already packed.

Of course.

I blinked, looked around, and muttered, “Did someone fast-forward the morning?”

Yasmin, who was also just waking up, pulled a blanket up a little higher.

“Probably Mario.”

“That guy is creepy.”

“Efficient,” she said.

I looked at her.

She looked back.

Then we both grinned.

Outside, the wind was blowing fresh and strong.

Not pleasantly fresh, but Fehmarn-fresh. As if the island wanted to make sure once more that we didn’t mistake it for some lukewarm little farewell. The wind swept through the trees, shook the branches, carried the cries of seagulls over the country house, and made everything seem alive.

Departure.

The word felt wrong.

Just yesterday, everything had been light, camera, garden, tears, blossoms, and that incomprehensible feeling as if my inner self had suddenly opened up. And now we were supposed to leave again?

Part of me wanted to be defiant.

Another part knew that it was exactly the right thing to do.

Sometimes something has to end so that it remains precious.

I hated that thought.

It sounded too reasonable.

Before saying goodbye, I wanted to see Beatrice one more time.

She was actually standing outside, not far from that railing where we had talked on saturday. When I saw her, my heart immediately softened. Not dramatically. Not overwhelmed like the day before. More like warm. Grateful.

Mario helped me over to her, and as soon as I was close enough, I put my arms around her.

Not trying to be cool.

Not casual.

Just like that.

Beatrice returned the hug, firmly and calmly.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

She pulled back a little and looked at me.

“For what?”

I could have made another joke.

For the excellent railing service.

For emotional emergency support.

For professionally catching a slightly hysterical disco queen.

But this time, I didn’t want to dodge the question.

“Because you were there,” I said. “When it mattered.”

Beatrice didn’t say anything.

So I kept talking before my courage took another break.

“I thought I didn’t need something like that. I mean… someone to catch me before anything even happened. I thought I was cool enough. Cool enough. Sassy enough. But you were right there when I realized that maybe I did need it after all.”

Beatrice smiled.

“You did well.”

“I cried like a garden hose with feelings.”

“You did that well, too.”

I had to laugh. And my eyes were burning again.

“I hope I see you again someday.”

“I hope so, too.”

She ran her hand briefly through my hair, and in that small gesture lay a familiarity that was actually far too deep for the short time we’d spent together.

Then she looked at me with an almost serious smile.

“And Lisa?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t lose that flirty, cool attitude.”

I blinked.

“Really?”

“Yes. It suits you.”

I laughed softly, but this time it wasn’t a defense. It was joy.

“I thought that was exactly what had to be broken.”

Beatrice shook her head.

“No. Just the wall behind it.”

That hit.

Of course it did.

Why did everyone here—people and dolls alike—have to be so terribly good at saying things that went straight to your heart?

“You can stay sassy,” she said. “You can stay cool. You can sparkle. Just don’t hide behind it completely anymore.”

I nodded slowly.

“Deal.”

“Fine.”

I rested my head on her shoulder again.

“Thanks, Beatrice.”

“Take care of Yasmin.”

“Always.”

“And yourself.”

I wanted to say something casual. Something like “I’m practically indestructible.” But I let it go.

“I’ll try,” I said.

That was more honest.

Meanwhile, Mario had loaded the car.

When we came back, he was standing by the car, checking everything one last time. Bags, boxes, camera gear. The old country house lay behind him, and the wind tugged at his clothes. He looked tired. Of course he looked tired. After these past few days, he had to be tired. But there was that quiet glow on his face that I had come to know.

The glow of someone who had created something.

Not just pictures.

He helped Yasmin into the car first.

Then me.

This time I got to sit in the passenger seat.

Next to Mario.

I tried to look very dignified.

“Co-pilot Lisa-Marie reporting for duty,” I said.

Mario fastened his seatbelt carefully and smiled. “Then nothing can go wrong.”

“That’s the right attitude.”

Yasmin sat in the back and said dryly, “Statistically questionable.”

I turned slightly toward her.

“You’ve become way too relaxed since Fehmarn. I don’t know if I like that.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Very much so.”

Then we drove off.

The country house fell behind us.

Slowly at first, then completely.

I looked out the window for as long as I could. Every wall, every tree, every path seemed to want to say goodbye to me one last time. Maybe I was imagining it. Probably I was imagining it.

I didn’t care.

When we reached the Fehmarn bridge, something happened that was so cheesy I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t been there myself.

The sky parted.

Just for a moment.

A sliver of light broke through the clouds and fell onto the baltic sea. The water began to sparkle, as if someone had thrown a handful of diamonds over the waves. Water to the left. Water to the right. The sky above us. Below us, this bridge that had carried us off on our adventure on friday and was now bringing us back.

I held my breath.

Not on purpose.

It just happened.

“Yasmin,” I whispered.

“I see it,” she said softly from behind.

Mario didn’t say anything either.

Good.

Some moments take offense if you comment on them too quickly.

The light lasted only a moment.

Then the clouds closed in again.

And it began to rain.

At first light, then heavier. Drops ran down the windshield, leaving little silver trails, distorting the world outside. The sea vanished behind gray and movement.

The sky was crying.

Yes, I know. Cheesy alert. Full siren.

But that’s exactly how it felt.

As if the sky were crying because my heart was crying too as we said goodbye. Not loudly. Not like yesterday in the garden. More like deep inside. In that place where things are allowed to hurt, even if they were beautiful.

There was no music playing during the drive.

I’d asked Mario not to play any.

Yasmin had been surprised at first. Of course she was surprised. After all, I was Lisa-Marie. Disco queen. Club girl. The girl who didn’t just like music, but probably had her own lighting technician working in her head.

“No music?” she asked cautiously at some point.

I kept looking out the window.

“No.”

“Are you okay?”

There it was again. That quiet concern.

I turned my head and looked at her.

“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely.”

And I meant it.

I was fine.

More than fine.

But my head was still so full of images. My heart so full of emotion. Just a little more—one more note, one more song, any melody that touched exactly the wrong spot—and I probably would have just exploded.

Not in a dramatic sense.

Or maybe I would have.

A little.

“I just need silence,” I said. “So everything can stay inside.”

Yasmin understood.

I could tell right away.

She just nodded and leaned back.

That was new for us. Or maybe not new, but more mature. We no longer had to explain everything. Not right away. Not entirely.

The drive back felt longer than the drive there.

Maybe because on the way there, everything had been pulling us forward. Fehmarn, the sea, the bridge, the photo shoots, that unknown tomorrow. Every mile had been a promise.

Now every mile was a distance.

Fehmarn was receding.

Not from my heart. But from the window.

And that hurt.

The landscape rolled by. Roads. Fields. Forests. Rest stops. Other cars. People driving somewhere, unaware that in this car sat two dolls who were returning as something different from what they had been when they left.

I thought of Beatrice.

Her words.

Don’t lose that flirty, cool attitude.

At first I’d thought my coolness had been shattered.

But maybe that wasn’t true.

Maybe it hadn’t been shattered. Maybe it had just become delicate. Like powder on my skin. Still there, still visible, still a part of me—but no longer thickly applied like a mask. Something else shimmered through beneath it. Deep emotion. Femininity. The awareness of that femininity.

I was still sassy.

Still cute.

Still the one who would probably step right into the spotlight in clubs if she could.

But I wasn’t just that anymore.

And that felt grown-up.

Not old.

For God’s sake.

Old could be Fehmarn all by itself.

But more grown-up. More genuine. As if I’d finally realized that you’re not any less strong when you cry. And not any less cool when you admit that something touches you.

At some point, dusk slowly set in.

And we still had a long way to go.

The rain had let up. The windshield wipers moved more gently. Inside the car, it was warm, quiet, and, in a strange way, safe. Mario drove with concentration, but I could tell he was tired too. His hands rested calmly on the steering wheel. Sometimes he shifted his shoulders, as if he needed to shake off the strain of the last few days.

I wanted to say something.

Thank you, maybe.

Or: You have no idea what you’ve done.

Or: I think you’ve changed me.

But I said nothing.

Not yet.

Then the sky opened up again.

This time not over the sea.

But somewhere on the long road home.

The clouds parted, and suddenly the sunset fell right on my side of the car. Warm, golden light streamed through the window and settled over my face, over my hands, over the passenger seat. The world outside began to glow. Wet from the rain, golden from the evening, as if it had first cried and then decided to laugh again.

And this time, my heart laughed along with it.

Because suddenly I wasn’t just thinking about saying goodbye anymore.

I was thinking about home.

About Amber.

About Nathalie.

About our living room. About familiar voices. The couch. The feeling of arriving and wanting to tell them everything right away, so fast that the words stumble over each other.

Nathalie would look at us.

Amber would smile.

Yasmin would try to give a structured account and would probably be interrupted by me after three sentences.

I would throw my arms around Nathalie’s neck.

And I would tell her that I had been breathing for her.

Not even once.

Not twice.

Over and over again.

The world was laughing.

And suddenly, so was I.

Quietly at first.

Then for real.

Mario glanced at me briefly.

“Everything okay?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

And this time, the word sounded light.

It was already night when the familiar lights of our house came into view.

Our house.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed that light until I saw it.

After Fehmarn, everything looked both smaller and more precious at the same time. The world had grown bigger, yes. But that didn’t make home any less. On the contrary. It was as if the journey had cast a golden glow over everything that had previously been taken for granted.

Mario parked at an angle in front of the house entrance.

Not neatly. Not permanently. Just so he could get us inside right away.

“First to Amber and Nathalie,” he said.

I could have kissed him for that.

I didn’t.

Not yet.

He helped us out of the car. First Yasmin, then me. The night air was cool, different from Fehmarn. No salt, no seagulls, no wind from the baltic sea. But familiar.

And then we were inside.

I don’t remember exactly who spoke first.

Maybe Amber.

Maybe Yasmin.

Maybe no one.

Because as soon as I saw Nathalie, everything else faded away.

She was lying there, with her broken leg, Amber by her side. Her face lit up as if she’d been waiting by the door inside her whole time during the drive back.

And I practically ran to her.

As fast as you can run when you need help but your heart is already racing ahead.

Mario helped me the last bit, and then I threw my arms around Nathalie.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said, her voice already soft.

I wanted to say something cool.

Of course I wanted to.

Something like: “Fehmarn survived” or “The island must be missing me already” or “You should have seen me, I was a force of nature in pink.”

But there was nothing.

No line.

No joke.

Just this full, overflowing feeling.

“You were right,” I managed to say.

Nathalie held me tight.

“About what?”

“About everything.”

I pulled away a little and looked at her. My eyes were burning again. Of course. Welcome back, crybaby Lisa.

“I had a feeling it would be great,” I said. “But I had no idea. No idea, Nathalie. How much. How big. How…”

I couldn’t find the words.

Nathalie smiled, and it was that knowing smile that immediately reminded me of the evening before we had left.

“I know,” she said softly.

And she really did know.

“I breathed in the sea air for you,” I said quickly. “Over and over. Again and again. On the bridge. By the house. In the garden. Everywhere. You were there.”

My voice almost broke.

“Both of you. You and Amber. You were there the whole time. Here.”

I placed a hand on my chest.

Nathalie’s eyes glistened.

Amber gently stroked her arm, but she, too, looked as if she had to pull herself together.

“So I was there a little bit after all,” said Nathalie.

“More than a little bit.”

Yasmin came closer now, too. Calmer than I was, but with that warm, bright expression that Fehmarn had given her.

“She really was breathing for you the whole time,” she said.

“Tattletale,” I muttered.

“Documentation.”

“You’re not academic enough for that answer anymore.”

Yasmin smiled.

And then I told her about Beatrice.

About the railing. About her hug. About how I’d confessed my fear to her, even though I was supposed to be the epitome of cool. About how she’d said exactly the same thing as Nathalie.

Soak it up.

Nathalie nodded slowly.

And smiled knowingly.

“At my last big gathering,” she said, “I found a friend like that, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t say much more. But she didn’t need to.

Some encounters are too brief to call them friendships—and too deep to call them anything else.

Then it all came pouring out.

Yasmin and I talked.

Wildly.

Loudly.

All over the place.

Completely impossible to organize.

I started with the rain on the way back, then jumped to the silver mask, switched to the cherry tree, mentioned the bed under the roof, interrupted myself because I absolutely had to tell how the baltic sea had sparkled on the bridge, while Yasmin simultaneously tried to explain friday chronologically.

“No, wait, that was before the group photo!”

“But the champagne was more important!”

“Lisa, you can’t start with the champagne when Nathalie doesn’t even know what the room looked like yet.”

“Yes, I can. Emotionally, it makes perfect sense.”

Amber laughed.

Nathalie laughed.

Yasmin gave up.

That was nice.

While we were talking, Mario had already unloaded the car and moved it to a different spot.

Of course he had.

At some point, I noticed him.

He was standing in the doorway, leaning against it, his arms loosely crossed. Tired. Very tired. But smiling. He didn’t say anything. He just watched us.

Yasmin, telling her story much more freely now than she had before Fehmarn.

Nathalie, soaking up every word as if she were sitting on the Fehmarn bridge all over again.

Amber, sitting next to her, both happy and alert.

And me.

Lisa-Marie.

Back from Fehmarn.

Not quite the same anymore.

I looked at Mario.

And suddenly, there it was again—that gratitude.

Not small.

Not neat.

Not neatly phrased.

Gratitude in capital letters.

Bold.

Underlined.

Interwoven with love.

I couldn’t put it into words. Not in that moment. Maybe I would have cried again if I’d tried. And honestly: My eyes had worked enough overtime in the last twenty-four hours.

So I just looked at him.

He understood.

Of course he understood.

His smile softened.

Later, when the initial flurry of stories had died down a bit, Nathalie looked at both of us for a long time. First at Yasmin. Then at me.

She didn’t say anything right away.

And because I had learned by then that the silent moments were often the most important ones, I waited.

Finally, she said:

“You went to Fehmarn as dolls.”

I held my breath.

Nathalie smiled.

“But that’s not how you came back.”

Yasmin fell completely silent.

So did I.

For once.

“What do you mean?” I asked quietly.

Nathalie looked at me, and there was no heaviness in her gaze. Only warmth.

“More,” she said. “You have become more.”

That single word filled the room.

More.

Not because we had been worth less before.

Not because Fehmarn had given us meaning in the first place.

But because something within us had become visible that might have been sleeping before.

Yasmin had learned that she could be the one they meant.

I had learned that I didn’t have to hide behind glitter to shine.

And maybe Nathalie was right.

Maybe we had gone as dolls.

But we had returned with the light of the sea in our hearts.

With images in our minds.

With salt in our memories.

With a bridge between who we had been and what we now knew about ourselves.

I leaned against Nathalie, careful not to put weight on her leg, and let my head sink against her shoulder.

“I missed you,” I said.

“I missed you too.”

“Next time, you’re coming with us.”

She smiled.

“Next time.”

Amber placed a hand on mine.

Yasmin moved closer.

Mario was still standing in the doorway.

And for a moment, everything was there.

Fehmarn.

The sea.

The rain.

The sunset.

The mask.

The feathers.

The cherry tree.

Beatrice.

Nathalie’s broken leg.

Amber’s care.

Yasmin’s newfound calm.

Mario’s weary smile.

My heart, which finally stopped pretending that coolness was the same as strength.

I was still Lisa-Marie.

Disco queen.

Country girl.

Dreamer.

Witty talker.

Crybaby.

Woman.

But now I knew that all of that belonged together.

That my sassy nature was allowed to stay.

That my coolness didn’t have to disappear.

It just wasn’t my armor anymore.

It had become powder.

A fine shimmer on the skin.

Underneath, everything was finally allowed to shine through.

Depth.

Emotion.

Femininity.

Love.

And later, completely exhausted from traveling, tears, storytelling, and coming home, when I closed my eyes, I heard Nathalie’s voice once more.

Soak it all in.

I had done it.

We had done it.

And now we were home again.

Not smaller, because the world had grown bigger.

But bigger, because we had returned home.