Is it hard to find an apartment for rent in Berlin?

The city stands tall. Cold, gray buildings stretch against the sky. The streets carry the weight of history. The people walk fast, eyes forward, hands deep in their pockets. Some are going home. Some are looking for one.

Apartments exist. Somewhere. Behind locked doors. The city is full, they say. The wait is long. The chances are small. But the ones who stay, the ones who fight, they find a way.

The rent is high. Higher than it was. Higher than it should be. The city was once cheap, but that Berlin is gone. Now, you pay for more than a roof. You pay for the air, for the streets, for the right to call this place your own.

A one-bedroom flat can take half your earnings. A room in a shared flat, a third. Some take less, some take more. The numbers shift like the seasons, but the story stays the same. The price is never low. The need is never small.

The city wants proof. The landlords want security. They ask for papers, and if you do not have them, you are nothing.

Identification. Proof of earnings. A letter saying you left your last place clean and without debt. A report on your credit, on your history, on your life. The ones who have these things stand a chance. The ones who don’t move from rejection to rejection, looking for a door that will open.

You wake early. You check the listings. You call. You write. You wait.

Then comes a viewing. You arrive on time, but you are not the only one. The hallway is full of others, all wanting the same space. You step inside. You imagine your life here. You see your books on the shelf, your coat on the chair, your hands turning the key.

You smile. You nod. You say you will take it. So does everyone else. You leave. You wait. You hope. And most times, you hear nothing.

The contract is thick with words that bind. Rules. Restrictions. Numbers that decide how much, how long, how little you own your own life.

Some sign without reading. Some take their time. Some ask questions. The smart ones do. The desperate ones don’t. The fine print hides traps, and once you sign, there is no turning back.

Some come with nothing. No place. No time. They take what they can. A room for now. A bed for a while. A space that is not home, but is not the street either.

It buys time. A moment to breathe, to think, to plan. But it is never enough. Not for long. The ones who stay too long forget what they came for. The ones who move on, they find a way.