I stand up too quickly. "That’s not fair."
She doesn’t answer. Just turns and starts walking. I stay there, shocked. Not angry.
Not even hurt, really. Just… confused. Really confused.
Like I missed something. Like I failed a test I didn’t even know I was taking. I look down at the wine bottle, now half-buried in the sand. At the empty spot where she was sitting.
What did I do wrong? Is it me? Is it her? Is it… both?
…
The sky is darker now.
I drop the bag by my door, kick it shut with my foot. The silence hits hard. I check my phone for the fifth time.
No messages. No calls. No footsteps behind me. Just me. And the weight of everything I don’t know how to say.
I move on autopilot. I peel off my shirt, let it fall to the floor, step out of my shoes.
I grab my book. My comfort book. And I step out onto the balcony.
The air smells lemon blossoms.
My eyes keep drifting to the phone beside me. Still nothing. No response.
No "sorry." No "I’m home." No anything.
I tap the screen again. The last message I sent stares back at me like a bad joke. And I don’t get it.
I don’t understand what did I do wrong. I always try with her. Always. I’m the one who remembers her coffee order in winter and switches it to cold the second June hits.
I’m the one who usually stays up helping her rehearse her presentations when she’s panicking at midnight. I’m the one who books museum trips just because she likes them.
I gave her all the soft parts of me. And she liked that.
At first.
But then... the late replies. The quick excuses. The way she started flinching when I touched her shoulder. And the way she called me dramatic for noticing.
She says I overthink things. Maybe I do.
But maybe… she underfeels them.
Still, I can’t shake the thought that maybe it’s me. Maybe I push too hard. Maybe I expect too much from someone who isn’t built for effort.
I lean back, staring up at the sky. It’s too cloudy for stars tonight. I sigh. Perfect.
Italy at night. People walking, laughing, eating gelato, living their best lives… and I’m here like some side character reading the same book for the seventh time because my actual reality feels off.
My girlfriend is literally in the same city as me. And I can’t even talk to her properly or say, "Hey, come meet my old friends," or "Come see this place I grew up in," or "Come sit with me for ten minutes."
She doesn’t even speak Italian. Only English.
Which shouldn’t be a problem, but I can already hear the awkward silence, feel the confusion, imagine the way she looks at me like she wants to leave.
So I sit alone. On my stupid balcony. With my stupid book. Pretending this is enough.
10) Get Dressed
