I don’t remember what day of the week it was. Maybe it was Sunday. He was returning from a trip he went on with his best friend. They went to Lisbon. He told me he wanted to come to my house from the airport. I thought it was sweet; he must have missed me.

I took a shower and did my hair. I had just cut bangs then, so I was still figuring out how to style them properly. I put vanilla lotion all over my body and sprayed perfume on my neck and wrists. I wore Levi's blue jeans and a Union Jack tank top. I made myself butter noodles as I waited for him. I joined my two friends as I ate them. We talked about the Met Gala theme and something about Justin Bieber. I can’t quite remember.

He texted me, saying he was twenty minutes away. Something didn't feel right. He was acting normally, but I had this nagging feeling that something bad was coming. I asked him if he was okay. He replied we needed to talk and that he had a lot on his mind. I didn’t want to panic yet; maybe it wasn’t about me. I asked if he was staying the night. He didn’t know yet.

That’s when I knew. He wasn’t coming over because he missed me; he was coming over to end it. Suddenly, my butter noodles were going to make me sick. I couldn’t eat anymore. My mind was going in a million different places, and it wouldn’t shut off.

Did I do something wrong? Have I said something to upset him? What made him feel so strongly about this?

I racked through my brain over and over. I didn’t do anything to upset him. My friends stared at me as a wave of anxiety ran through me. They tried to reassure me; they told me to stop overthinking it. I saw them look at each other. I knew they weren’t believing anything they were saying to me. I didn’t believe it either.

He was here. I wore my pink and red heart slippers and shuffled to the lift. I saw him in the lobby waiting. He had a backpack on. He looked tired. As he came closer, I could smell cigarettes. He must’ve smoked one before coming into the building. I avoided eye contact as we waited for the lift. I asked him how the trip was. He told me it was good. Nothing else was said until we got to my room.

It was awkward. He put his bag, phone, and wallet down on my desk. Train ticket stubs fell out, all of them being bright yellow. I still have them. He took a seat in my desk chair. I grabbed a red sweatshirt to put on and sat on the bed. My legs were crossed, and I played with my hands despite my sleeves swallowing them.

He started to speak. Everything he said contradicted his previous statements. He was confused, clearly. It only made me confused. He admitted he didn’t know if he wanted to continue our relationship. I started to cry. I kicked myself for getting attached.

How was he able to get me so attached? Why did I let him in?

I don’t remember all his reasons for wanting to break it off. Something about love is complicated for him. His hands kept brushing through his hair; his breaths got heavier. He was panicking. I asked him if something happened to make him react this way. I pushed and pushed. He finally admitted that whilst in Lisbon, he flirted with some girl at a bar. He ended up exchanging Instagram accounts with her. The guilt was eating him alive right in front of me.

I tried to act like it didn’t matter to me. We weren’t technically official, so I didn't feel like I could show hurt about the situation.

We talked about our options. He just kept saying he didn’t know. At that moment, I realised I wanted him in my life. I thought about everything I couldn't do if we never saw each other again. I would never find out where that scar by his eyebrow came from. I would never play with his rings again. I would never kiss him after he's had a cigarette.

I tried to take mental pictures of him. I didn’t want to forget him or our time together. I stared at his black boots and orange laces. I mustered up the courage to speak after crying a little more. There was snot running down my face; I could feel my eyes swell. I wiped my snot away with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Gross, I know. I told him I think I am great, and it’s a shame he doesn’t feel the same. More panic washed over him. He went to the bathroom to breathe, to calm down.

He came back with a plan. He wanted a few days to think about this because his head wasn't clear. I was emotional, but I agreed. The next morning, he left for work. I cried a lot. I hugged him goodbye, squeezing tighter because it might be the last time.

The next few days were hard. I spent most of my time breaking into a sob. My friends were with me at all times. They fed me, gave me water, grabbed tissues, and were always open to hugging me. They wanted me to feel like I would be okay again. Eventually.

I got a moment alone on Tuesday afternoon. I realised I loved him. That’s why this hurts so much. I wanted him to come back and hold me. I wanted him to tell me it was all going to be okay. But I also felt so much anger towards him. I wanted to ask him if any of this was worth it.

Was it worth it for me to be so blindly loyal to you? Was it worth it for you to take my body and my heart?

I got a phone call, interrupting my thoughts and my tears. It was him.