When I opened the door and saw Logan in his navy button-up, I could have thrown up. Already, I knew what was coming. Two months ago, when he bought the shirt in Portugal, he FaceTimed me, saying it was the perfect Bad News shirt because blue is the sad color. It seemed he wasn't joking.
"I made your favorite," I said, gesturing to the spaghetti on the table. I wanted to add, Let that be enough.
He smiled a little but didn't respond, just got right to the table and right to eating. He wanted this done.
He seemed to like the food. At one point, he said he was "in love" with it, which was weird. Sure, he was talking about food, but that isn't what you say to the person you're about to break up with. What was he thinking, playing with my heart like that?
I tried to cover my surprise with a grateful smile, crediting the recipe to my grandad even though I had found it on Allrecipes half an hour beforehand. That's just the kind of thing Logan liked to hear.
He wasn't interested in conversation. I asked for more stories about his friends from Lisbon, a run-down of his day today, anything. I just liked hearing his voice.
When he first left for Europe, I kept thinking I heard him. Walking on the street, I'd hear people talking and whip my head around fast, thinking my curly-haired boyfriend had realized he couldn't spend half a year without me.
It was always a stranger.
When our plates were empty, he got that creased-brow look on his face that he gets when he has something important to say. I knew what was coming, so I took the plates to the kitchen to collect myself.
I stood there in my six-by-four feet miniature kitchen a little too long. These were the last moments I could ever call him my boyfriend, I knew.
When I got back, he jumped right into it. No time wasted.
"Thiago, can we talk for a sec?"
I nodded, taking his hand. There was no pressure in return, so I let go and put my hands in my lap.
He dove into a speech that I'm too heartbroken to repeat, but he basically said he didn't like me anymore and we that should break up. It was cruel, but it was also fast. A ripping-off-the-Band-Aid kind of breakup.
I gave him one final chance, asking if he'd thought about it enough.
Say no, I willed. Say nevermind. Say sorry I was stupid, let's go watch a movie.
"What is there to think about?" he responded.
The final strings holding me together snapped. I barely heard my own words, just bit my tongue to hold back tears.
When he finally left, I closed the door quickly and collapsed right there in the doorway, crying so hard I couldn't breathe.