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This is the English edition of the German book 'Nirgendwann'.
The German version can be found here →

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Plan B sucked too…

Jo is backed into a corner. When her boss finally crosses the line, she snaps. But then what? No money, no job, no apartment—and all of that in a city that doesn’t give a damn.

Armed with sharp wit, sheer stubbornness, and the help of a quirky old man, she navigates an urban jungle full of roadblocks. Between cheap coffee cups, questionable offers, and a glimmer of hope, one question remains: How far do you have to fall before you can get back up?

A story about self-respect, speaking your mind, and having the guts to stand your ground.

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Excerpt

Jo

”You’re dripping into my bedroom.”

He stands there like a schoolboy who’s been caught. His shoulders slumped, his hands protectively covering his now tiny dick.

He stands soaking wet in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom. Water runs from the tips of his hair, small drops collecting on the floor. Not exactly the sight you want to see in the morning. Especially not after a night like last night.

”Should I come back to your place? Or maybe get breakfast?” His voice sounds almost hopeful, as if he believes that last night meant something. Something deeper. But the look on his face tells me otherwise. My head is throbbing, and I’m not in the mood for sex. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He probably expected more. Something more than a simple goodbye. In a moment, he’ll ask me for my number. I can already feel the awkwardness building. Hopefully, he won’t burst into tears. Now I have to stay strong and consistent. There’s no room for pity.

”No, dry yourself off and then you have to go, unfortunately,” I say as calmly and firmly as possible. ”It was nice, but that’s all it is. And breakfast is canceled. I have to work.”

I can’t very well tell him that the fridge is empty because I’m broke. And I just want to be left alone now. Stoping it before it gets annoying.

He looked better yesterday. One of those nights when you convince yourself that the guy looks pretty decent when the light is right and the alcohol clouds your vision a little. But in daylight? Well, there are some things that are better left in the dark.

I point to the stack of towels in the bathroom. ”Take one, and then you have to go, I’m sorry.”

Don’t sound too harsh. Maybe I feel a little sorry for him—no, actually, I don’t. The sooner he’s out of here, the better. It’s clearly over for me before it could even begin.

”It’s Sunday, you have to work?” He sounds surprised. He was probably imagining a cozy morning. Brunch. Maybe with some kind of erotic encore from the night before. Rolls for breakfast? Mine? Oh God, bourgeoisie on the march.

”Yes, imagine that, I have to work.” This time clearly more irritated. I don’t feel like arguing right now. I want my peace and quiet, to be alone again as soon as possible.

He sighs deeply and drags himself into the bathroom as if the whole world were weighing on his shoulders. But he makes it. Without dying on the way there. I hear the sink running. I imagine him drying himself off dejectedly, as if I’ve just broken his heart. He probably tried really hard. But that alone isn’t enough. The night wasn’t bad, but nothing in me wants a repeat. At least he wasn’t a ”one-shot wonder,” but that’s the best I can say about the evening.

After a few minutes, he came back out of the bathroom. Now dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. His shoulders slumped even lower than before. He leans awkwardly against the doorframe, unsure of what to do or say next.

”I used your toothbrush. I hope that’s okay.”

It wasn’t! He also used my towel. MY towel. And probably dried his ass and balls with it. My face towel! I’m going to disinfect the place later—and get a new toothbrush, definitely. But I don’t necessarily have to tell him that. So: Bye, and door closed.

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Another Excerpt

Büdchen – The Corner Store

But what’s it like living together in the big city, how has that changed? What about the desire for community?

The city isn’t a small village. Structures that once existed in the countryside or in small communities don’t work in the city; more precisely, they never established themselves in the first place.

But the desire for community, for the neighborhood, the hood, is still there. You identify yourself by the corner where you live, where you shop, which stores you frequent. The neighborhood determines the style.

People want to belong to something, even if they have little or no direct contact with the people in their neighborhood. But everyone will tell you clearly and emphatically that they come from the South Side, Ehrenfeld, or Bickendorf. It’s almost like saying, „I come from the village back there.“

These boundaries are actually noticeable. It’s not just differences in shops and houses that hint at boundaries. In some cases, it’s also language and idioms that change from neighborhood to neighborhood. Not drastically, but there are nuances that signal to Cologne residents: You’ve left your neighborhood, watch out, foreign territory. ‚Hic sunt dracones,’ wrote the cartographers of old at the margins of their maps—where the unknown began.

◊

Here in Cologne, there are more singles than families; over 50% of households are now single-person households. All of them live alone in smaller or larger apartments. And the trend is rising.

Like ships in fog, they drift through their territory. They signal their position with mostly digital signals, like foghorns.

They also hear other ships traveling in the fog. Perhaps they are on the same course, heading for an imaginary safe harbor, or at the same position – but they can’t actually see anyone.

They hear the others and think to themselves that they are not alone, and that gives them a little security. Because now they know that there must be others out there looking for the same thing as them.

At the same time, they are afraid of getting too close. In the worst case, a collision could mean disaster, with one or both ships suffering damage or taking on water and perhaps sinking.

But they long for closeness and at the same time are afraid to get any closer to others. So they drift silently through the night and the fog, hearing the others calling. Perhaps one of them will answer, confirming that they have been heard and noticed. They call out – and yet remain alone.

The only comfort is the knowledge that there are others out there who are also searching. It’s not much, but something. And perhaps the fog will lift at some point.

Perhaps we all need to be a little braver, listen more closely, and slowly approach other ships. Perhaps the fog is not as thick as we think, and we could cautiously approach other ships at a slow speed. If danger arises, we can always turn away and hide in the fog again.

But closeness requires courage. Courage to take a risk and possibly be sunk.

The city is like an ocean, with reefs and sandbanks, harbors and bays. We navigate by ear, perhaps by maps. But in the fog, we are all the same. Alone and searching for safety.

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And Another Excerpt

Buedchen—The Corner Store

Jo drags herself to the café. This job just got a lot more important. Today, she’s even early—not that Freddi notices. He grunts something at her and unlocks the door. She grabs her apron and fires up the coffee machine. Then, like every day, she sorts through the deliveries—what stays behind the counter and what goes to the kitchen.

By the time she carries the supplies into the back, Matzner’s in a much better mood.

"Hey, sweetheart, how about dinner tonight?"

"Sorry, Freddi, can’t. Maybe some other time." She sidesteps past him, hefting the boxes onto the storage shelf. Then, an idea hits her. "Hey, Freddi—any chance you could pay me now? It’s just a few days till the first."

"Hmm, I guess I could."

"So… will you? Please?"

"You broke again?" Freddi asks, amused.

"Yeah, no, well… sort of. Just need to cover a few things, and it would really help right now."

"Will you have dinner with me, sweetheart?"

"Freddi, one has nothing to do with the other. Please, I just want my paycheck a few days early. You pay in cash anyway, so it’s not a big deal, right?"

"You know, Jo, you could be a little nicer to me."

They both hear the front door open. Jo quickly escapes to the counter.

"Good morning! What can I get you?" she asks the customer.

"Just a coffee for now."

"Almost ready," she says cheerfully, prepping the machine. "Just a couple more minutes. You’re the first one today."

The customer takes a seat, and Jo is relieved to put her conversation with Freddi on pause. She feels tense.

More customers trickle in, keeping her busy. At some point, she manages to slide open the café’s front doors. Focusing on work helps her regain some sense of stability.

Then, a rare moment—no customers. It’s quiet for once. She heads back to the kitchen.

Freddi is sitting at his tiny desk—his office, as he pretentiously calls it.

"Freddi, about my paycheck—is that a yes?"

He gets up, casually strolling toward her. He rests a hand on her shoulder. "Well, if it’s that important to you, Jo, I’m sure we can work something out."

"That would be great, Freddi, really. It would save me a lot of trouble." Jo exhales, relieved. She had expected him to push back, like always. "Actually, maybe you could even give me a small advance? That would really help."

Freddi still has his hand on her shoulder. "Sweetheart, no problem at all—if you’re a little nice to me, I’m sure we can come to an agreement."

Then he presses up against her and grabs her breast.

"Just be nice to me. Show me a little love, and you can have your money early."

Jo freezes for a second. Then she snaps.

First, she slaps him so hard he stumbles backward. Then she kicks him—hard.

"You disgusting pig!" she yells. "Don’t you ever touch me again, you piece of shit!"

Freddi doubles over, groaning, clutching his crotch. Internally, Jo congratulates herself on her aim—but she knows there will be consequences.

Freddi grips his desk, trying to steady himself. Between groans, he manages to spit out, "You filthy whore, you’re fired. Get the hell out. And forget your money. If you’re not gone by the count of three, I’m calling the cops and telling them you stole from me, you worthless bitch."

He slumps into his chair, still in pain.

Jo stands frozen. No money. She’s screwed. But then—fuck it. If everything’s already falling apart, she might as well go all in.

With one sweeping motion, she clears the counter.

Lettuce, tomato slices, a jug of milk, flour—it all goes flying, landing all over Freddi. The spice shelf is next. Curry, paprika, salt, pepper—an entire cascade of seasonings rains down on him.

The two customers in the café are now watching, mouths open. They’ve definitely heard the shouting. Now they’re staring as Jo storms out of the kitchen, face red, fuming.

"I’m sorry, but the café is now closed. The boss isn’t feeling well. Drinks are on the house. Now please leave."

She marches behind the counter, opens the register, and grabs the day’s earnings—90 euros and some change. Not a full paycheck, but at least it’s something. Then, with one sweeping motion, she clears the shelf behind her too.

The last remaining customers bolt for the door.

The crash of cups and dishes hitting the floor echoes through the café. The second shelf, the one with the liquor bottles? That one’s going too. Bottles go flying. The sticky mix of alcohol spreads across the floor.

She saves one bottle for herself.

If I’m gonna burn this bridge, I might as well do it right, she thinks.

The café looks like a war zone. Satisfied, Jo steps over broken glass, spilled coffee, and shattered plates.

She leaves.

She’s never setting foot in this place again.

She feels good.

90 euros and a bottle of Bacardi.

Not bad.