What would it be like if he were truly my boyfriend? If I were happy that he was finally conscious? If he’d lost his memory of me, but he still trusted that we were together and that it was good.
“There’s something you should know,” I say.
Florian fixes me with a beatific smile. I tremble under the steadiness of his gaze and the way his blue eyes soften as if he’s smiling at someone he likes.
But he doesn’t like me.
I know that.
He can barely stand me.
At some point, hopefully for his sake some point soon, he’ll remember exactly who I am and he’ll remember he hates me.
“So we’re...” I hesitate. It should be easy to tell him that I’m not his boyfriend.
He stares at me the way boyfriends stare at their loved ones in movies when the music is swelling and they’re about to do their final kiss, the kind where the perfect boyfriend dips his beloved down and the camera soars above them in the midst of falling snow or falling rose petals or falling fall leaves.
“This is difficult.” I give an awkward laugh. “You seem to be under the impression of something that… isn’t the case.”
“Tell me.”
I don’t want to tell him.
I want to be in a world where I have a handsome hockey star boyfriend who looks at me with wonder.
“You know how you woke up and saw me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you, uh, made an assumption.”
Florian’s brow furrows. His skin is paler than before.
The monitor pings at a more rapid, more uneven pace.
I swallow hard. This shouldn’t be difficult to say.
“We’re not…” I sigh.
How am I supposed to tell him that I’m only here because Coach asked me to come? Because his family has been notified, but they have to travel from Germany? That Coach thought someone from the team should be visiting the hospital, and my schedule is the most flexible? That if I looked like I was praying, it was because I was doing some ridiculous manifestation exercises in the ridiculous book that Gina got me? That I dreaded coming to the hospital, because every interaction between us has been awkward, and that I didn’t feel like I was supposed to see someone who liked me so little in his hospital gown while he was sleeping?
Maybe he’ll be relieved when I tell him the truth. The Florian I know would be relieved.
But instead, it feels like I’m breaking his heart, which can’t be the case.
I haven’t brokenanyone’s heart.
I know that.
I’ve been broken up with before, though most people I meet on dating apps don’t even bother to do that.
I know what it feels like to meet someone I care about for dinner, then on the way to the restaurant, his face goes serious before he tells me that we’re not what I want us to be, that I’ve had things wrong, that I was foolish to think that long, animated conversations and sex sessions meant anything, so I’m left stranded outside the restaurant, looking foolish in my velvet blazer, blinking rapidly into the night as pedestrians rush around me, casting worried glances at me.
“Mateo?” Florian’s voice pulls me back.
The pings are louder, faster.
The door slams open and three nurses rush in. They usher me away and start taking his vitals. My heart squeezes as they fuss over Florian.
