Mirage

No older notifications. iMessage read yesterday at 17:28. No reaction. I push forward, past the endless stretch of the hallway. The hum of the moving walkways. The shuffle of disoriented travelers. The heavy silence around. I glance at my phone once again. No older notifications. iMessage read yesterday at 17:28. No reaction. Alas, I resign. I buy a pack of gummy bears and open my book.

Going back has become unsettling. At least recently. Something has changed. I don't know if I like these changes. I don't know if these changes like me. All I know is—I'd rather stay. But duty calls. Two shifts a year. Like a factory worker.

But all these people—going there—make me shiver. They represent everything I tried to leave behind. Everything I ran away from. Everything I once believed I could escape. Their looks. Their docility. Their compliance. Their meanness. Their selfishness. Their lack of thought. The way they accept a narrative without question. The way they repeat what they've been thought. Everything. They are the ones who voted for that joke of a man. The ones who would do it again, in even greater numbers. The ones who trust him more than anyone. The ones who would take to the streets for him, chanting, shouting, convinced they are right.

For months now, Romania has stood at the eye of the political storm. Ever since last December’s annulled presidential elections, voices across the spectrum have rushed to decry the country’s so-called democratic backsliding on NATO’s eastern flank. The European Commission held TikTok accountable for fueling mass misinformation. Meanwhile, Elon Musk and JD Vance—the usual culprits—rushed in with their own theories, echoing the far-right. They argued the elections should have never been annulled. They claimed the will of the people must be upheld. Even if that means democracy itself collapses.

And now, the rerun: candidacy rejected. Decision upheld by the Constitutional Court. Protests organized by the far-right. Elon Musk, high on ketamine, live-tweeting. Yet all the op-eds, analyses, think pieces are obsessed with the political system. With that joke of a man. With the three far-right parties in parliament. Meanwhile, the real issue—ignored. Overlooked. Sidelined. Never held accountable. Never seen for what it is.

The people. The voters. The masses. The ones who enabled it. The problem.

Memories flood in. Tears roll down my cheeks. The long, soulless hallway. The departure screens flickering. And then, another hallway resurfaces. The one in my childhood home. Gloomy. Endless. Lined with my mother's high heels. I remember the school hallways. Dark. Empty. Reeking of childhood games, Madonna dances and mysteries. The other hallways, 500m up the road, where we filmed German class projects. These hallways held everything. Our laughter. Our joy. Our fears. The vile comments about last weekend's party. The girls who had done too much. The ones who hadn't. The ones mocked for their lack of skill. Their hesitation. Their bodies. The crude body shaming. The whispered insults directed at me. My feline walk. The way I spoke. The way I moved. The eternal question. Do you have a girlfriend?

The other hallways—on the other end of town—remind me of scoldings. Behave properly. Fit the mold. Diversity is uncanny. A perversion of the west. A corruption of the orthodox body of thought. And for those who don't fit? A tragedy of sadness. An epidemic of loneliness. Misunderstood. Ostracized. In a place that tolerates diversity only for ten days a year. All because of the theatre festival and its fake glamour. But not out of conviction. Not because diversity means anything here. But because it sells. Tourism. Money. Fame.

And then I wonder. How can a society heal if it's rotten at its core? How could I be surprised by the outcome when the election result is merely a reflection of everything I ran from? It isn't a glitch in the system. It's the natural course of things. Blaming the voters feels futile. Almost ludicrous. Excuses are made. Culprits named. Russia, of course. Suddenly, Romania is a forerunner in the fight against disinformation. The lighthouse in the east, as one of my professors at university put it. Against Russian influence. Against destabilization. A country fighting for its soul. Proving it can play Russia's game—and win.

Maybe that’s true. Maybe the effort to salvage democracy is commendable. But despite my deep aversion to the Russian political machine, the truth is simpler. Duller. The crooks were never foreign. The crooks were always here. The people. The ones with little to no education. The ones who spent their lives learning how to cheat the system. The ones trained to obey, not to think. The ones who lack even the most basic comprehension skills. No wonder they fell for the Russian playbook. After all, what else can be expected from a country where functional illiteracy surpasses 50%—the highest in the European Union? This. This is the real problem.

These people do not understand transition. They never have. From the tumultuous ’90s to EU accession, seventeen years was too short for them to comprehend the world they had suddenly inherited after the fall of communism. The complexities of capitalism. The weight of free thought.

In the ’80s, Gorbachev instituted change—glasnost, perestroika. In Romania, nothing. Darkness. Ceaușescu had looked east, not west. After visiting Kim Il Sung, he imagined a nation modeled after Juche. While the Soviet Union struggled with reform, Romania clung to isolation.

And then, overnight, the Iron Curtain collapsed. Freedom. No guidance. No manual. No transition. A country that had spent decades in darkness was now expected to function in the light. But how? Under communism, everyone feared everyone. Hundreds of thousands were ready to snitch—neighbors, friends, even family members. The Securitate had created a society of distrust. Self-preservation. Selfishness.

After the revolution, obedience was not an option anymore. Confusion took hold. So they retreated. To what they knew. To what felt safe. To childhood lessons. To old, simple values. To tradition. Because it was easier than thinking.

Excusing them is pointless. Arguing with them is pointless. Yet they decide. For us. For me. Millions of functional illiterates, swarming the polls. Casting their ballots without knowing what they are voting for. Without understanding how the electoral system works. Manipulated. Convinced. Certain they are right.

Maybe I was blind. Or maybe I wanted to be. Maybe this isn’t new. Maybe I’m only seeing it now. Or maybe I always knew and just chose to hope. I see it now. I was living in a bubble.

I realize, I had moved away to a place of relative ambiguity. Yet all I longed for was connection. In any form. Platonic. Romantic. But what makes my story different? What sets it apart from every other young adult at a crossroads? Isn’t this what everyone desires? To belong? To be seen? To be part of community of close friends to compensate for the misgivings and streaks of seclusion? Where do I fit in this myriad of stories, xeroxed from a template?

With every return comes my departure. Point. Counterpoint. I leave behind crowded cinema rooms, full of uncivil audiences, in what they call the capital of good manners. A saga of fuddy-duddies and their retrograde ideas. Ideas that reject change, diversity, modernity. A mirage of broken dreams. Reality in its barest form.

And with every return, the rift deepens. Widens. Returns I am forced to undertake. Returns that make the longing worse. For a specific connection. A specific someone. Their love. Their attention. Their presence.

Even for just a moment. A minute. A second. A text.

20:15. I pick up my phone. One new message. I'm sorry.

On my nightstand:

• Der Sprung – Simone Lappert
• Sonia ridică mâna – Lavinia Braniște
• Sexagenara şi tânărul – Nora Iuga

On repeat:

• Striptease – FKA Twigs
• Burning Hour – Jadu Heart
• Punish - Ethel Cain
• Velcro featuring Gus Dapperton – spill tab
• Bad Texter – Ryan Woods
• Pinie featuring orbit - Parra for Cuva

To bake:

• Buchteln with rose hip jam
• Marillenknödel
• Babka with poppy seeds