I did promise Olga breakfast since last night but damn sleep.

Saturday morning felt like breathing for the first time in days — no alarm, no pager, no urgent beeps pulling me out of bed at dawn. I woke slowly, sunlight slipping through the thin curtains of my Charlottenburg apartment, warm across my face.

Olga had texted at 09:12: "Breakfast? I’m starving and my hair looks like a purple disaster. Save me."

She really waited.

I laughed into my pillow, typed back "Give me 30 mins," and rolled out of bed.

We met at a small café near Sophie-Charlotte-Platz — outdoor tables under striped awnings, smell of fresh Brötchen and...