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

---

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.

---

Excerpt

"You're dripping in my bedroom."

He stands there like a guilty schoolboy. Shoulders slumped, hands protectively cupping his now very unimpressive junk.

Soaking wet, he’s in the doorway between my bedroom and the bathroom. Water drips from his hair, pooling on the floor. Not exactly the sight you want first thing in the morning. Especially not after a night like last night.

"Should I come back later? Or maybe grab us some breakfast?" His voice sounds almost hopeful, like he actually thinks last night meant something. Something deeper. But his appearance says otherwise. My head is pounding, and sex is the last thing on my mind. Actually, scratch that—it's the last thing I want right now.

He was expecting more. Something beyond a simple goodbye. Any second now, he’s going to ask for my number. I can already feel the awkwardness building. Please don’t cry. Time to be firm. No room for pity.

"No, you’re gonna dry off now, and then you’ll have to go," I say as calmly and firmly as possible. "It was nice, but that’s it. No breakfast. I have to work."

Not like I can tell him my fridge is empty because I’m broke. And honestly, I just want my peace. End it before it gets annoying.

He looked better last night. One of those nights where you convince yourself a guy is decent-looking—if the lighting is right and the alcohol blurs things a bit. But in daylight? Yeah… some things are best left in the dark.

I point toward the stack of towels in the bathroom. "Grab one, and then you really have to go."

Don’t sound too harsh. Maybe I feel a little bad—actually, no, I don’t. The sooner he’s gone, the better. This was over before it even started.

"It’s Sunday, and you have to work?" He sounds surprised. He probably pictured a cozy morning. Brunch. Maybe a lazy post-hookup round two. Fresh rolls for breakfast? Mine? Oh god, domestic vibes incoming.

"Yeah, imagine that—I have to work." This time, my voice is sharper. I’m really not in the mood for a discussion. I just want my space. Now.

He lets out a long sigh, drags himself into the bathroom like he’s carrying the weight of the world. But he makes it. No dramatic collapse on the way. I hear the sink running. I picture him drying off with deep, tragic disappointment, like I just crushed his fragile heart. He probably thought he did everything right. But effort alone isn’t enough. Last night wasn’t bad, but I feel zero urge for an encore. He wasn’t a one-shot wonder, at least—that’s about the best thing I can say.

A few minutes later, he’s back. Now dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, shoulders sagging even lower. He leans awkwardly against the doorframe, unsure of what to do or say next.

"I used your toothbrush. Hope that’s okay."

It was not okay. He also used my towel. My towel. The one for my face. And I just know he wiped his ass and balls with it. I can already see myself disinfecting the entire apartment later—especially the bathroom. New toothbrush, definitely. But no need to tell him that. I’m not dragging this out any longer.

So: Bye. Door closed.

---

Another Excerpt

The Corner Store

But what’s it like to live together in a big city? What happens to the need for community? A city isn’t a village anymore. There’s no small-town feel. Here in Cologne, more than 50% of people are single, living in smaller or larger apartments, each on their own.

And yet, the longing for community, for belonging to a neighborhood, a hood, is still there. People identify with the area where they live, where they shop, which places they frequent. Südstadt, Ehrenfeld—your district defines your style. People want to belong to something, even if they barely interact with others in their neighborhood. But still, they say, I’m from Downtown, the way someone from a small village might proudly say where they’re from.

But that sense of belonging doesn’t come from actually experiencing the neighborhood anymore. A lot of it happens online. A virtual district, much like the groups on Facebook, Instagram, Discord, Slack… you name it.

I used to hear more. Customers would come into the store and gossip about Joe, about what Lucie had said this time, who was cheating on whom, who had been knocking on the wrong door in the middle of the night. In short, all the little social dramas.

In my mind, this created a picture of the neighborhood—one shaped by people, their lives, and their stories. Like landmarks helping you navigate through an otherwise unfamiliar landscape. Pins on a map, invisibly connected by events and individuals.

Back there, where the butcher shop used to be—the one that always had a wild boar hanging outside in winter—that’s where the weird piano teacher lived. The one all the rich girls were sent to for lessons. Now the butcher is gone, replaced by a small architecture firm. The piano teacher? Long gone. Landmarks have always shifted. Some disappeared, some moved, and new ones took their place.

But these markers are fading faster now because no one uses the 'Buedchen'—the little corner store—as an information hub anymore. Sure, you still hear the occasional juicy bit of news, but the details, the stories that gave a place its character, are disappearing. Now, only the old-timers remember them. "You know, that’s where Mueller used to live—the guy with the wooden leg."

But the landmarks fade because fewer and fewer people knew Müller. The stories no longer mean anything to them. The map is getting emptier.

◊

We walk through the city, have our apartments, our so-called environment, our hood—a space where we feel relatively safe. We live alone, most of us. But deep down, we still long for what humanity used to be built on: community.

We drift through our neighborhoods like ships in the fog. We send out our signals, like foghorns, announcing our presence. We hear other ships out there, moving in the same haze. Maybe they’re heading in our direction, toward the same safe harbor—or maybe just toward the same unknown. But we don’t see them.

We hear them. We know we’re not alone, and that gives us some comfort. Somewhere out there, others must be searching for the same thing.

And at the same time, we’re terrified of getting too close. Because a collision could be a disaster—someone could take damage, start sinking, maybe even go under completely.

We crave connection. But we’re afraid to let anyone in. So we drift, silent in the night and fog, hearing others call out. Maybe one ship answers, just to let us know it heard us. That we exist. We call out—and remain alone.

And yet, just knowing that others are out there, searching too, is a small comfort. Not much, but something. And maybe, just maybe, the fog will lift one day.

Maybe we just need to be braver. Listen more closely. Take small steps toward other ships. Maybe the fog isn’t as thick as we think, and if we move slowly, carefully, we might actually reach someone. If danger arises, we can always turn back, disappear into the mist again.

But that takes courage. The courage to take a risk—even if it means getting sunk.

The city is like a sea, filled with reefs and sandbanks, harbors and bays. We navigate by sound, maybe by old maps. But in the fog, we are all the same. Alone, searching for safety.

---

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.