I flick my wrist and scroll even farther. I end up at the very beginning and when I do, I go completely still. The first picture I have in Rome is me and Matt—when the two of us were sitting in the café trying to break up my Instagram feed. I smile to myself as I think back on it. I painfully face-planted in front of dozens of people. My shirt was wet. I smelled like coffee. I couldn’t stand Matt and he couldn’t wait to get away from me.
I want to relive it again and again.
Back in the present I compare that moment to what I’m doing now. The basics are the same. I’m in a café. I’m sitting with someone. I’m struggling as I try to figure out how to act and what to say. But the big difference is that day in Rome, I was looking for Greg, and now here in New York, I wish for nothing else but Matt.
I gaze down at the picture one more time before I close out the screen and slip the phone into my bag. Greg’s confusion is obvious, and now it’s my turn to lean in over the table.
“Why did you want to see me, Greg? What changed all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know,” he says, his voice sounding surprised. “I missed you. I missed you and I wanted to see you.”
“But why, though?” I press. “Why did you want to see me?”
Greg chuckles, looking at me like we’re playing a game, but he’s willing to indulge me. “I wanted to see you because for the past few weeks, I feel like maybe we made a mistake in not giving things another try. The more I kept thinking about you, the more I realized that no one will ever love me like you did. You were there for me through so much and I don’t want to lose you. We’re not done yet.”
We’re not done yet. No one will love him like I did. I don’t know what I was hoping to hear just then, but it wasn’t that. Greg’s not to blame, though. At least, not entirely. He wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t make it perfectly clear for the past two years that I’d be more than open to trying again. That all he would have to do is ask and we could start over.
“I need you to do something for me,” I tell him. “Take out your phone and unlock it.” He just stares at me for a second, but then does as I ask, taking out his phone with a curious grin.
“Okay,” he replies, holding the phone facing him and tapping in his passcode. “What now?”
I take a breath. Never did I ever think that I’d make the request I’m about to make. “I need you to delete my phone number and block me on social media.”
Greg’s eyes shift from playful to worried in an instant. “What? Why would you want me to do that?”
“I want you to do that because we’ve both been holding on to something that isn’t there anymore. Probably me more than you, but either way, you and I have been using each other as strange, unhealthy support blankets and we can’t anymore. It’s not good for either of us, but it’s especially not good for me.”
“But don’t you want to get back together?” Greg asks. He sounds confused but there’s also self-assurance lining his tone. He doesn’t think there is anything he can’t talk me out of. He thinks I’ll give in because that’s who I was. Whowewere. But those two people belong in the past. Not in the present and definitely not in the future.
“I did want to get back together,” I finally tell him. “And I guess we both assumed that one day we would. But someone I met in Italy once told me that we get to choose the love we give to ourselves, and at the end of the day, I don’t think the right choice for either of us is each other.”
Before I can stop myself, I reach forward to hold Greg’s hand in mine. When we touch now, it doesn’t feel like fireworks. No fanfare or undeniable chemistry. It feels like two people who are supposed to say goodbye.
“I think you’re wrong about no one loving you like I did,” I go on to say. “I bet someone will. A few people, probably.”
Greg hits me with a slow, sad smile, and I can’t help but to mirror it in return. He looks down at his phone and sighs. “So that’s it, then? No speaking at all? Not even to let you know whenThe Princess Briderandomly appears on Netflix?”
I shake my head and then so does Greg, but in disbelief.
“Inconceivable,” he murmurs.
I let out a little laugh and let go of his hand, nudging my chin toward his phone. “Go on. It’s time to let go.”
After one more pause, Greg moves his fingers across the screen of his contacts section, deleting my number and then switching over to Instagram where I watch as he blocks me. When he’s done, he gazes up at me, seeming resigned but not heartbroken.
“Thank you for doing that,” I tell him. He shrugs and slides his phone back into his pocket.
“Even if you delete my number, I know you have it memorized. You might still call me.”
“I won’t,” I tell him softly. “In retrospect, we should have done this way earlier.”
“Maybe,” he replies. “To think, here I thought I was being romantic and it got me dumped instead.”
“I didn’t dump you, Greg. I dumped us. And someone had to do it.”
Greg nods and crosses his arms as he sits back fully in his chair. “Did you always used to say my name like that?”
“Like what?” I asked, bewildered.
