David
David sat at their dining table and watched as Lena flipped through the folder the realtor had laid out between
them. The house—their home—was officially on the market. The realtor was polite and efficient, walking them
through comparable listings and expected timelines, but David barely heard a word of it. His attention k ept
drifting to Lena, her calm, detached demeanor twisting the knife in his chest. She was perfectly composed, her
tone professional as she asked about staging and pricing strategies. If she felt any emotion about selling the
house where they’d built a life together, she didn’t show it. David, on the other hand, felt like the walls were
closing in around him. Every corner of this house held a memory—a laugh, a kiss, a whispered promise in the
dark. And now, it was all being packed away into neat little compartments, ready to be sold to strangers. The
realtor flipped a page in the folder, pulling David out of his thoughts. “If everything goes smoothly, we could
have it listed by next week,” she said, smiling at Lena. “Are there any days in the coming weeks when you’d be
unavailable for showings? It helps to have the schedule coordinated upfront.” Lena nodded, glancing at her
calendar. “Actually, I’ll be out of the country for a couple of weeks,” she said casually, jotting something down
in her notebook. David blinked, his brow furrowing. “Out of the country?” he asked, unable to ke ep the surprise
from his voice.
Lena didn’t look up. “Yes,” she said simply. “I’m going to Italy.” David’s chest tightened, the words hitting
him like a punch. Italy. The trip they’d talked about for years, dreamed about, but never taken. The trip they’d
postponed time and time again because of work, because of life, because of excuses that now seemed
meaningless. “You’re going to Italy?” he r epeated, his voice quieter this time, almost disbelieving. Lena finally
looked at him, her expression unreadable. “Yes,” she said again, her tone clipped. David sat back, stunned. She
was going without him. Of course she was. Why wouldn’t she? But the realization still stung, sharp and de ep,
like a wound he hadn’t pr epared for. The realtor cleared her throat, sensing the tension but pressing on. “Well,
that’s not a problem,” she said, her voice cheerful. “We can work around it. I’ll just make a note here.” Lena
nodded, her attention shifting back to the papers in front of her, but David couldn’t stop staring at her. He’d
always imagined Italy as something they’d experience together—holding hands in Florence, sipping wine in
Tuscany, laughing over plates of pasta in Rome. And now, she was going without him. She was taking the
dream they’d shared and making it hers alone. David’s stomach twisted as a new, more insidious thought took
hold. What if she wasn’t going alone? What if someone else was st epping into the dreams he’d so thoughtlessly
ruined? The image came unbidden—a faceless man sitting across from Lena at a sunlit café, making her laugh,
sharing the wine he should’ve been pouring, holding her hand as they wandered the streets he’d dreamed of
walking with her. The thought clawed at him, raw and relentless, jealousy surging through his veins like fire.
Was there someone else waiting to take his
place? To st ep into the life they had built together and make them theirs instead? “Lena,” he said softly, leaning
forward, his voice low enough that the realtor pretended not to hear. “You’re going to Italy... alone?” She met
his gaze, her eyes cool, distant. “Yes, David. Alone. I think we both know I deserve that much.” The jealousy
simmered, unrelenting, but it was overtaken by shame as he registered the weariness in her tone. He opened his
mouth to respond, but no words came. What could he say? She was right. She deserved the trip, the es cape, the
chance to reclaim a piece of her life that he’d shattered. Still, the idea of her walking the cobblestone streets,
experiencing all the beauty and wonder of Italy without him—it made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t put
into words. The realtor, sensing the tension thickening in the air, glanced between them and offered a polite
smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She cleared her throat, closing the folder with a soft snap. “Well, I think
that’s everything for today. I was planning to do a quick walkthrough, but we can save that for next time,” she
said briskly, already standing and reaching for her bag. “I’ll send over the paperwork for your signatures and
follow up about the staging schedule.” Without waiting for much of a response, she st epped back, her
professional demeanor firmly in place as she edged toward the door. “Let me know if you have any questions in
the meantime.” Lena smiled politely, standing and shaking the realtor’s hand. “Thank you,” she said, her voice
brisk and businesslike. David stood too, feeling like he was moving through water, the air around him heavy
and suffocating. As the realtor left, he turned to Lena, but she was already gathering her things, her focus
completely elsewhere.
“You really are moving on,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. Lena paused, glancing at him with a
look he couldn’t quite decipher. “Yes, David,” she said, her voice steady but devoid of warmth. “I am.” With
that, she walked out of the room, leaving him standing alone in the house that had once been theirs. David sank
back into his chair, staring at the folder on the table, the weight of everything he’d lost pressing down on him
like never before.
* * *
David sat at his desk, the dim glow of his laptop screen casting shadows across the room. He stared at the
search bar for a long moment, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as if hesitant to begin. Finally, with a
resigned sigh, he typed the words: Best places to visit in Italy. The results flooded in—vivid images of ancient
ruins, cobblestone streets, and rolling hills dotted with vineyards filled his screen. His chest tightened as he
imagined Lena walking those streets, her head tilted back to take in the towering cathedrals and Renaissance
art. She’d always loved history, always admired beauty in its simplest and grandest forms. He could see her
now, pausing to snap a photo or sipping a glass of wine at a café, her expression softer than he remembered it in
months. He shook the thought away and clicked on a guide. If she was going to Italy, she deserved to have the
best experience possible. He grabbed a notebook from the drawer and started jotting down notes. Rome stood
out first—Lena would adore the Colosseum, its towering arches ste eped in history. He read that early morning
tours were less crowded and thought she’d appreciate avoiding the chaos of the midday rush. The Vatican City,
too, was a must, though he wasn’t sure if she’d be drawn more to the Sistine Chapel or the vast museums. And
then there was Trastevere, with its winding alleys and quaint restaurants, a place he thought she’d enjoy dining
alone, far from tourists.
He turned the page and focused on Florence, a city they’d once talked about visiting together. The Uffizi
Gallery seemed like a no-brainer; Lena loved Renaissance art, and the thought of her standing before
Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus made him ache with regret. He read about the Duomo and its famous climb,
offering breathtaking views of the city— he imagined her there, catching her breath at the top, taking it all in. A
small article mentioned a gelateria called Gelateria dei Neri, and he underlined it. Lena always loved pistachio
gelato, and this place was r eputed to have some of the best. When he reached Tuscany, the articles spoke of
sprawling vineyards and charming medieval towns. He jotted down details about Siena, thinking she’d
appreciate its quieter streets compared to Florence. She’d always been a sucker for good wine, and he scribbled
notes about vineyard tours that didn’t feel too commercial, the kind that focused on authenticity. Venice was
harder to picture. He knew gondolas were a cliché, but she might still enjoy the experience, if only for the
history and tradition behind them. He noted the Rialto Bridge at sunset, imagining her leaning against the rail,
the orange light softening the lines of her face. And then there was cicchetti, the Venetian version of tapas,
which he knew she’d love —small, perfect bites paired with a glass of wine. As he k ept researching, the list
grew longer—restaurants with glowing reviews for options, train schedules between cities, tips for avoiding
tourist traps. Each detail made him feel more connected to her, even if it was in the most pathetic, one-sided
way. He knew it didn’t matter, knew he had no right to in volve himself in her trip, but he couldn’t stop. This
was the closest he could get to being part of her life again. When he finally shut the laptop, his notebook was
filled with pages of recommendations. He stared at it, unsure what to do. Giving it to her felt presumptuous.
Maybe this had just been for him, a way to channel the aching, empty love he still felt for her.
David leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He hated himself for so many things, but
mostly for losing her—for letting his own weakness and insecurity destroy the most perfect person he’d ever
known. He glanced at the notebook one last time before turning off the light. For now, it sat there, a quiet
offering to a woman who had already moved beyond him.