The train station smelled like metal and espresso.
I stood beside Matteo with my hands tucked into the pockets of my jacket—not because I was cold, but because I didn't know what else to do with them. There's a kind of fidgeting your body does when it's trying not to fall apart. Mine had gone still. Too still.
He looked the same as always—sun-kissed, calm, suitcase at his feet, passport in hand. His linen shirt slightly wrinkled, like he'd rolled out of a painting and into real life. But something in my chest felt foreign. Like the organs had rearranged themselves overnight and left a hollow where my heart used to be.
We stood in silence, surrounded by the sound of rolling luggage, the occasional murmur of travelers, the overhead announcements echoing names I didn't care about. Just Matteo. Only him.
He hugged me like it wasn't the last time. Like this was just another goodbye before a dinner reservation. I let him. Let myself fall into that familiar space between his shoulder and jaw, where everything had felt safe.
There were no dramatics. No promises of future visits. No tearful vows to "make it work." Just the final softness of two people who had shared something real… but not sustainable.
"Text me when you land," I said, even though I knew I didn't mean it. I didn't want a message at midnight saying he'd arrived safely in another country where I didn't exist.
He smiled, that same Matteo smile—crooked, impossibly warm, like summer. "You'll be okay," he said, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand. "You were okay before me."
And that's what cracked me open.
Because I wasn't sure that was true.
Before him, I was functional. Efficient. Composed. In control. I could organize my life down to the minute, dominate boardrooms, plan wellness retreats and look good in every photo. But okay?
I didn't know what that meant anymore.
Okay was a metric I'd never learned to measure.
The train doors opened with a hiss that felt too loud, too final. He stepped inside, turned around once, and waved.
I didn't cry.
I stood still until the train disappeared. Until the platform emptied. Until I was just another woman alone in a beautiful city, holding too many memories and not enough hands.
Only then did the tears come.
Not loud. Not cinematic. Just soft, stunned heartbreak. The kind that doesn't scream. The kind that settles in your bones like fog. The kind that doesn't ask permission.
I walked through Florence like a ghost of myself. Past the corner café where we shared flaky pastries. Past the fountain where he dipped my hand into the water and said it was sacred. Past the bookstore where we argued over which Murakami book was the most overrated. Past the gelato stand where he said, "Life should always taste this sweet."
Everything looked the same.
But I was not.
Back at the Airbnb, I found one of his shirts folded into my laundry bag. A soft white one, worn at the collar. It smelled like him—salt and sun and something I couldn't name. It almost broke me.
I held it to my face and stood by the open window, breathing in memories I knew I couldn't keep.
I almost messaged him. Just to say, You left this. Just to give myself a reason to hold on for one more message. One more thread.
But I didn't.
Because he hadn't left anything behind—not really. He took everything that was his and left me with everything that was mine: the ache, the beauty, the reminder.
He was never mine to keep.
And maybe that was the point.
He was a page, not the book. A chapter, not the story. A summer, not the year.
That night, I walked down to the river and sat on the same bench where we once shared a bottle of cheap wine and watched street performers sing old Italian ballads.
A child ran past me, laughing, dragging a balloon in one hand and a piece of pizza in the other. A couple posed by the railing, her in a floral dress, him with a camera that looked older than both of us. Life went on, around me, without pause.
And I let it.
I pulled out my journal and scribbled down one sentence: "I'm not broken—I'm just open."
Matteo reminded me what wonder felt like. What ease could look like. What it meant to be touched without being tamed. He gave me a version of myself I hadn't met yet—the one who laughed too loudly, danced in alleyways, and didn't need to narrate her joy for validation.
But joy, I was learning, doesn't need to last forever to be real.
And love doesn't have to stay to matter.
When I finally closed the journal, I looked up at the stars over Florence. One of them blinked. Maybe a plane. Maybe a sign.
I whispered into the night, not for him to hear, but for me:
"Thank you for being exactly what I needed… for as long as I had you."
And then, I stood up.
Walked back home.
Slowly. Steadily.
Alone—but no longer empty.