I left him in the courtyard.
At the hotel, I packed until sunrise.
I cried while folding clothes I had bought for a week that no longer felt like mine.
Then I stopped.
David had lied.
Michael had lied.
But the boat ride had still happened.
The sea had still been blue.
I had eaten octopus despite being terrified of it.
I had danced badly in a square while strangers clapped.
Those moments belonged to me.
No man had created them.
At the airport, I found David sitting near the check-in desks.
He did not approach.
A small paper bag rested beside him.
When I walked closer, he stood.
“I brought your book,” he said.
I had left it at the restaurant.
“Thank you.”
He handed it to me.
No flowers.
No speech.
No demand for forgiveness.
“Clara said I should let you go.”
“She’s sensible.”
“Painfully.”
I placed the book in my bag.
“My flight boards in an hour.”
“I know.”
He looked at me.
“I am sorry I met you through a lie.”
“So am I.”
“But I am not sorry I met you.”
I hated how much I understood that.
