“You can answer however you want.”
She stared.
“You followed me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
Her entire posture changed.
“Wow.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You’re stalking me.”
“No.”
“You literally followed me.”
“I confirmed where you were after you lied.”
“That is stalking.”
“Call it whatever helps.”
“You are controlling.”
“If I were controlling, I would tell you who you can see.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m deciding who I marry.”
Lara opened her mouth.
Closed it.
I continued.
“You are free to have dinner with Nico.”
“You are free to speak to him.”
“You are free to decide I’m insecure.”
“You are not free to require me to marry you afterward.”
She sat.
For the first time, her anger weakened.
“What are we doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are we breaking up?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“You decided that already?”
“Yes.”
“Without talking?”
“We’re talking now.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Neither was the last two months.”
She cried.
I did too.
That part is usually missing when people retell breakup stories.
We were not strangers.
I loved her.
Some part of me still wanted her to say the perfect sentence that would reverse reality.
She never did.
We slept separately.
The following morning, Lara went to work.
I went to work.
We barely spoke.
I expected her to pack.
She did not.
Instead, for the next week, Lara behaved as if cancellation were temporary.
She told friends we had “paused” the wedding because I had panicked.
She told her mother we were working through trust issues.
At home, she alternated between affection and anger.
One evening:
“I know I shouldn’t have lied.”
The next:
“You invaded my privacy.”
Then:
“Nico is just a friend.”
Then:
“You never trusted me anyway.”
I kept returning to the same point.
“You lied.”
She kept trying to move the argument somewhere else.
My following.
Her privacy.
My workload.
Her loneliness.
My inability to be spontaneous.
Wedding stress.
Everything except the choice to maintain a secret relationship.
Then came the trip.
Lara had mentioned weeks earlier that Bea and several friends were considering four days in Mallorca.
I had not cared.
She traveled with friends before.
Then one evening I walked into the bedroom and saw the suitcase.
“Mallorca?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
“Who’s going?”
She hesitated.
“Bea might come later.”
“Might?”
“And some people Nico knows.”
I stared.
“Nico is going.”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious?”
She zipped a packing cube.
“Oh my God, Matteo.”
“We’ve already discussed this.”
“No.”
“You keep talking until I stop.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“Are you sharing a room?”
“No.”
“Same hotel?”