Pink Blood
The moment we became close, I could feel the fracture beginning. That’s always what happens when you’re that close to another person—you hit a limit.
Wenke and I took over this blog after Hannah left, and over the past year we became genuinely close. Running it together meant no hiding—we shared days and nights, festivals, real moments and ones that wounded. But I knew from the start it couldn’t last.
I spend half my time pretending to be burnt out, incapable of real feeling. That’s completely false. I’m oversensitive. I get caught on the most disgusting and intimate things, and I can’t manage what my head conjures afterward. I’m probably the worst at it.
Wenke’s built the same way. We’re both the type to feel everything acutely, to be exposed in ways that are embarrassing. We kept running into emotional material that started as a joke but became impossible to laugh past—the closeness, the expectations, the weight of being inside another person’s interior life. We failed at the distance. We failed at ourselves.
It kills me that it ends this way. We couldn’t manage our own minds, and anything more would just deepen the damage. She’s stepping back from writing here, focusing on her own work. I’ll miss her voice, the way she disappears into thoughts, her instinct for music. But she’s not gone.
So here’s what you do: you say thank you for something real, and you let it go with a heavy heart. This is certain: we’ll hear from her. Once you’ve tasted something that vital, you want more of it.