Broken Code

Part 1

A finger softly pressed the final key, and a new page materialised in the virtual space. For now, it existed only for me—a private creation, mine alone to admire. It had no address, and no home on the web, but that didn't particularly dishearten me. I could endlessly generate code, transforming it into graphics, modules, or entire websites, feeling like a wizard in their laboratory. Yet this wizard desperately needed to pay the electricity bills.

"If you keep hammering the same spot, all you'll get is a lump on your forehead," Mark quipped, lounging on the sofa with his guitar. "Maybe take a break?"

I tore my eyes away from the ancient monitor, where yet another failed job application sat frozen. Mark was trying to be supportive, though he barely understood the nature of my work. Rubbing my tired eyes, I let out a heavy sigh.

"It's not that simple, Mark. Finding a job as a web developer right now is nearly impossible. It's a new field, and so few companies hire people like me. Without experience, it's getting harder and harder to break in," I admitted, the sting of unsuccessful interviews still fresh, where my skills always seemed inadequate for the demands of the modern business world.

Mark couldn't quite grasp my struggles. His life had long been sorted—gigs, music, fans. He was confident in his path. On the other hand, I had abandoned my design studies to dive headfirst into the unfamiliar programming world. Two years ago, I didn't even know how a computer worked.

"You just need to wait a bit," he said, squinting as if trying to glimpse some brighter future. "Berlin's going to be the tech hub, you'll see. Everyone will flock here, and you'll already be ahead of the curve. It's just a matter of time."

I smiled, though I knew his words were meant more to comfort than predict. Over the years of our marriage, he'd perfected the art of automatic reassurance.

Our schedules rarely align. I spent my evenings at the computer while he performed in clubs. His life brimmed with people, music, and applause. Mine was filled with the silence of nights before a screen. Sometimes, I envied the way music completely consumed him.

My name is Steph, I'm twenty-eight years old. And I think I've finally got a proper job.

Not just another random gig, but a real one—with a schedule, a steady income, and (hard to believe) my desk. These are strange times, with what everyone calls "the future" looming on the horizon. Programming and computers are no longer a mystery reserved for the chosen few. Frankly, I still can't quite believe I've been hired, even though I know it's not the kind of job I always dreamed of.

At the company I now work for, the team is almost entirely male—guys all deeply immersed in code, computers, and other machine-related or virtual-world matters. This is my new world, although I'm still getting used to the idea that I belong in it.

My role is far from the glamorous developer dream. I handle simpler tasks with minimal responsibility, but at least there's a sense of stability. Perhaps that's not so bad. Yet the work lacks excitement for me—I crave something thrilling, something that would make me lose track of time.

It's Berlin in the late nineties. The city is changing, just like all of us. It's noisy as if every resident is trying to carve out their place in this emerging world. I live in this chaos with my husband—a musician who's always on the move, rushing between gigs and rehearsals—while I'm the one who's "settled," with an office and a place in a company.