E-Boy Story Part 2 At 22, I suddenly became visible
I always thought that once I found my style, I would automatically become more confident.
That's at least how I imagined it.
When I was twelve, there was that black hoodie. At fifteen, the first black nail polish. At seventeen, the eyeliner I tried in the bathroom at night and immediately wiped off. At eighteen, the new city where no one remembered what I used to look like. And at twenty-two, I finally stood in front of the mirror and looked like the guy I would have secretly admired on Pinterest, TikTok, and in anime edits back then.
Black, slightly messy hair. Silver necklaces. Rings. Dark nail polish. Oversized shirt with a purple print. Black pants, a little ripped at the knees. Eyeliner, not too much, but enough to make my eyes look darker and more awake. Headphones around my neck. Phone in hand. A look somewhere between „I'm tired“ and „I have feelings, but I'm packaging them decoratively.“.
Actually, I should have been happy.
And sometimes I was too.
But being visible is strange.
As long as you're only trying out your style in your room, it's solely yours. There are no comments, no looks, no outside opinions. Just mirrors, light, music, and that little tingle when something finally fits. But as soon as you go out, style becomes a message that other people want to read. Some read it kindly. Some misunderstand. Some read it far too loudly.
At twenty-two, I was no longer the insecure boy who nearly died of nervousness at the sight of a black nail. But I also wasn't this untouchable e-boy from the videos who always seemed perfectly lit and never laughed awkwardly.
I was just me.
And I had to learn that that's enough.
It started on a Friday evening.
I was sitting in my room, which by now looked like a personal attack on any minimalist interior design style. To the left, my gaming setup with purple LED lighting, controllers, keyboard, two monitors, and far too many cables. To the right, a shelf with manga, headphones, perfume, hair wax, old concert tickets, and a small bowl full of rings. On the wall hung Polaroids, anime posters, and a few photos of me from different stages: me at twelve, grinning widely and clueless; me at fourteen, far too serious; me at eighteen, out for the first time with black nail polish; and a recent photo where I looked like I'd finally made peace with myself.
I actually just wanted to play games.
A quiet evening. Discord on. Energy drink on the table. Hoodie half over my head. My favorite playlist in the background. Everything is perfect.
Then Niko wrote.
I had known Niko for a few months from a Discord server. At first, we only wrote about games, then about music, then about clothes, then at some point about things you write at night when you should actually be sleeping and are suddenly more honest than planned.
He was different from most people online.
Not this constant „bro,“ not this exaggerated coolness. He had humor, but also calmness. He could laugh at the dumbest memes and ten minutes later ask if I ever worried that my style was just a mask.
That question completely stumped me back then.
Because yes.
Of course, I had that fear.
His message that evening was brief:
„Are you going to that little indie concert tomorrow? I think a lot of people there will look like you. In a good way, of course.“
I stared at the message.
A concert.
Outside.
Many people.
Many people who might look like me.
That sounded both like a dream and like the ultimate social villain.
I wrote:
„Maybe. Don't know yet.“
That was a lie. I knew exactly that I wanted to go. I was just afraid to actually go.
Niko replied:
„I'm here. No pressure. But if you come, I owe you a drink. Non-alcoholic, before you sue me.“
I had to laugh.
Then I sat there for ten minutes, pretending to think, even though my heart had already made the decision.
The next evening, the well-known ceremony began.
Outfit chaos.
The black shirt was too boring. The other one too flashy. The pants too tight. The jacket too warm. The necklace too much. Then too little again. My hair was doing the exact opposite of what it was supposed to. I redid the eyeliner three times because one side always looked like „e-boy,“ the other like „I just lost a fight with a printer.“.
At some point, I stood in front of the mirror and said out loud:
„You're just going now.“
My reflection didn't look convinced.
But I went.
I ended up wearing a black oversized shirt over a striped long-sleeve, black cargo pants, silver chains, two rings, black nails, and a short, dark jacket. My hair fell onto my forehead, my eyeliner was acceptable, and I smelled like a perfume I only wear when I want to pretend I have my life together.
On the way to the location, I was listening to music through my headphones. Much too loud. Not because I wanted to tune out the world. Okay, yes, exactly for that reason.
People were already standing in front of the club. Some with colorful hair, some completely in black, some with boots, chains, makeup, piercings, oversized jackets. And then suddenly something strange happened.
I didn't fall for it.
Or rather: I didn't stand out in the right way.
I wasn't the weird guy with nail polish. I was just one of many who had made themselves visible. It was as if someone had built a place where all the little versions of me that I used to hide could breathe at the same time.
Then I saw Niko.
He stood a little apart, black jeans, gray hoodie under a leather jacket, dark curls, a silver ring in his ear. Not quite E-boy, not quite indie, not quite anything. Just very him.
When he saw me, he raised his hand.
„There he is,“ he said.
I stood in front of him, trying not to look too obviously nervous.
„I was threatened with a free drink.“
„Motivation is important.“
His gaze briefly swept over my outfit. Not scrutinizing. More like acknowledging.
„Looks good,“ he said.
I shrugged as if it were nothing. Internally, my brain immediately stored this sentence in an emotional archive.
„Thanks,“ I said. „You too.“
He grinned. „I just got dressed. You have a concept.“
„My concept is: ten minutes of panic and then darkness.“
„Strong concept.“
We went in.
The club was small, dark, warm, and smelled of fog machines, beer, perfume, and that strange dust only music venues seem to have. The stage was low, the lights violet and blue, and people stood everywhere, all of them somehow feeling too beautiful, too broken, too creative, or too shy for everyday life.
I loved it immediately.
And was still scared.
Not before the music. Not before the people. More like before myself. Before this feeling that I was really there. Not as a spectator through a screen. Not as a secret fan. Not as someone who thinks at home later: Maybe someday.
I was there.
In my style.
With a boy who knew me from the internet and was now looking at me in real life.
Niko fetched us drinks. I stood by a wall, pretending to be completely relaxed, looking at the posters. In reality, I was people-watching. Two girls in platform shoes were laughing about something on a phone. A guy with pink hair briefly kissed his boyfriend. Another stood alone, black nails, headphones around his neck, eyes on the floor. I recognized in each of them a small piece of what I had once been searching for.
Niko came back and handed me a Coke.
„You're scanning the room like an NPC before a quest.“
„I am analyzing aesthetic risks.“
„Of course.“
The first band started playing. Guitars, drums, a singer with way too much feeling in his voice. The crowd moved slowly, then more. I stood stiffly at first. Niko next to me did too. Then he grinned at me.
„You may move.“
„I am very cool. Cool people hardly move.“
„That's nonsense.“
„That's branding.“
He laughed and nudged me lightly with his shoulder.
At some point, I forgot how to be cool.
This might be the best thing that can happen at a concert.
I sang along to lyrics I only half knew. Moved without thinking about whether it looked good. Felt the bass in my chest, light on my face, warmth in the room. My hair eventually stuck a little to my forehead, my eyeliner hopefully held up, and I was just there.
Not perfect.
Unstaged.
Really.
After the second song, Niko leaned over to me so I could hear him over the music.
„You look happy.“
I turned to him.
„I think I'm it right now.“
He smiled. Not cheekily. Not ironically. Simply gently.
And for a moment, the music was no longer the loudest thing in the room.
After the concert, we went outside. The air was cold, and only now I realized how warm I had been. Outside the club, people were standing around, smoking, talking, laughing, taking pictures. Somewhere a bottle clinked. The city was dark, but not lonely.
Niko and I walked for a bit down the street without a specific destination.
„Have you been to concerts like this often?“ he asked.
„Not really,“ I said. „I used to want to, but I always felt like I didn't fit in.“
„And today?“
I looked at my hands. Black nail polish, chipped a bit on one nail.
„Today I had more of a feeling that I might fit in somewhere after all.“
Niko nodded slowly. „That's a good feeling.“
„Yes.“
We walked on. Our shoulders almost touched sometimes. I noticed it every time but pretended to be perfectly normal. Spoiler alert: I wasn't.
We stopped in front of a small kiosk. Niko bought a bottle of water and asked if I wanted anything else. I shook my head. Then we sat down on a low wall nearby, both still with that post-concert energy in our bodies.
„May I ask you something?“ he said.
„It depends on whether it's another question that tears me apart emotionally.“
„Maybe just a little.“
„Great.“
He looked ahead, not directly at me. „For you, is your style more of a shield or an expression?“
I breathed out softly.
Of course, Niko asked such questions.
Others asked, „Where is your shirt from?“
Niko asked directly about the soul's interior design.
I thought for a while.
„Early protection,“ I said. „The hoodie, the hair in my face, all black. That was like a distance. I could hide myself and pretend it was intentional at the same time.“
„And now?“
„Now it's more about expression. But protection is still there. When I look good, I feel less vulnerable.“
Niko nodded. „I understand.“
„And you?“
He chuckled softly. „For me, humor is protection. And sometimes jackets.“
„Jackets?“
„Yes. Good jackets solve many problems.“
„Profound.“
„Thank you.“
We both laughed, but a pleasant silence followed. I liked that Niko didn't always have to fill every moment. With him, a moment could simply be.
Then he said, „I think it's cool that you've become who you are.“
I looked at him. „That sounds like I'm done.“
„You are not.“
„Good.“
„But you seem like someone who took a long time to allow yourself.“
I looked away because it was too accurate.
„Maybe.“
„I don't mean that sadly.“
„But it is a little.“
„Yes,“ he said. „But also beautiful.“
I swallowed.
Sometimes I hate it when people understand me. It's much easier to remain a mysterious, misunderstood person. But Niko made it hard to hide behind coolness.
„At twelve, I never thought I'd go out like this,“ I said. „Dressed like this. With makeup. Nails. Chains. To a concert. With someone who really sees me like this.“
Niko looked at me. „And what would the twelve-year-old say now?“
I had to smile for a moment.
„Probably: Awesome. And then he'd pretend he didn't care.“
„Sounds like you.“
„Unfortunately, yes.“
Niko laughed.
Then it was quiet again.
Not unpleasant. But denser.
Our hands lay on the wall, not far from each other. His fingers moved slightly, as if he were thinking. I looked at them, then away. Then back again. My heart was suddenly very awake.
I was no longer a child. Not a fifteen-year-old with secret nail polish. Not a seventeen-year-old who immediately wiped away eyeliner. I was twenty-two, sitting next to a boy I liked after a concert at night, and my hand was a few inches from his.
And yet, this small distance felt enormous.
Niko looked at me.
„Is it okay if I take your hand?“
This question hit me almost harder than the touch itself.
I nodded.
He took my hand slowly, without haste. His fingers were cold from the night air, mine too. It wasn't dramatic. No fireworks, no movie kiss, no music except for the dull leftover bass still coming from somewhere in the club.
But it was real.
And maybe it was really better.
I looked at our hands. Black nail polish, silver rings, his fingers laced between mine. I was reminded of painting that one little finger when I was fifteen, thinking the whole world would laugh at me.
Jetzt hielt jemand genau diese Hand, als wäre sie nichts, wofür ich mich schämen müsste.
„Du bist still“, sagte Niko.
„Ich speichere gerade einen Moment.“
„Soll ich dramatisch schauen?“
„Bitte nicht. Sonst wird es peinlich.“
„Zu spät.“
Ich lachte und stieß ihn mit der Schulter an. Er ließ meine Hand nicht los.
Später brachte er mich zur Bahn. Wir liefen langsam, obwohl es kalt war. Ich glaube, keiner von uns wollte den Abend sofort beenden. An der Station standen wir unter grellem Licht, das jeden Versuch von mysteriöser E-Boy-Ästhetik gnadenlos zerstörte.
„Das Licht hier ist respektlos“, sagte ich.
Niko musterte mich gespielt ernst. „Du überlebst es. Immer noch sehr ästhetisch.“
„Danke, ich habe hart gelitten.“
„Das sieht man.“
Meine Bahn wurde angekündigt.
Of course.
Öffentliche Verkehrsmittel haben grundsätzlich kein Gespür für emotionale Entwicklung.
Niko sah mich an. „Schreibst du mir, wenn du zu Hause bist?“
„Yes.“
„Good.“
Eine Sekunde lang dachte ich, vielleicht passiert noch mehr. Vielleicht eine Umarmung. Vielleicht ein Kuss. Vielleicht irgendetwas, das mein Herz komplett aus der Bahn wirft. Aber Niko nahm nur noch einmal kurz meine Hand, drückte sie leicht und sagte:
„Ich bin froh, dass du gekommen bist.“
Ich auch, wollte ich sagen.
Stattdessen sagte ich: „Ich auch.“
Manchmal reicht das.
Zu Hause stand ich später vor dem Spiegel. Mein Eyeliner war leicht verschmiert, meine Haare waren komplett chaotisch, ein Nagel hatte eine Macke, und mein Shirt roch nach Club, Rauch von anderen Leuten und Nachtluft.
Ich sah nicht perfekt aus.
Ich sah besser aus als perfekt.
Ich sah aus, als hätte ich etwas erlebt.
Ich machte ein Foto. Nicht zehn. Nicht fünfzig. Nur eins.
Und ich löschte es nicht.
Dann schrieb ich Niko:
„Bin zu Hause. Der Zwölfjährige in mir fand den Abend ziemlich krass.“
His answer came quickly:
„Der Zweiundzwanzigjährige hoffentlich auch.“
I smiled.
„Ja. Der auch.“
Ich legte das Handy weg, aber nur für ungefähr drei Sekunden, weil ich natürlich nochmal nachsehen musste, ob er vielleicht noch etwas schreibt. Tat er nicht. Und das war okay. Der Abend musste nicht sofort weitergehen. Er durfte einfach bleiben, wie er war.
A concert.
Eine Cola.
Ein Gespräch über Schutz und Ausdruck.
Eine Hand, die meine hielt.
Und dieses Gefühl, dass der Weg vom schwarzen Hoodie mit zwölf bis zu diesem Moment mit zweiundzwanzig nicht immer leicht war, aber irgendwie genau hierher geführt hat.
Vielleicht wird aus Niko mehr.
Vielleicht auch nicht.
Aber heute habe ich gemerkt: Ich bin nicht mehr nur der Junge, der online andere bewundert und sich fragt, ob er jemals so sein darf.
Ich bin der Junge geworden, den ich früher gebraucht hätte.
Nur eben mit besserem Eyeliner.
Und sehr viel mehr Ringen
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