Valencia

As I took the train to Valencia at 8:55 pm on a Wednesday night, I silently sobbed, sat next to a priest in a comforting twist of events. This was the last time I would be on the way to greet my love. We both knew our love story was coming to an end. As the distance seemed to grow larger, and the fuller my life became, the greater the space between us. Looming in the now-near future, my departure from Europe and the expiration of two years abroad. The ticks of the time bomb only got louder and louder with each visit as we both pretended we couldn't hear them.

I believe we both had a mutual understanding that our chapter together was closing for good. Our schedules no longer allowed for these trips, and we seemed unwilling to compromise any longer.

My sadness quickly turned to excitement as he opened the door of our airbnb to greet me with a kiss, all the positive associations flooding back in his embrace. At the time, I felt guilty entering a weekend feigning normalcy, knowing in my bag I carried a breakup letter. Not to mention the early birthday gift I bought months ago, still wanting him to have it as a symbol of nearly the last year together.

My pure heart was unknowing he harbored a darker secret than I could have imagined. I play back our moments of love and intimacy and wonder if the alarm bells of his infidelity were going off. How he was maintaining a calm, collected demeanor under the weight of his guilt, I'll never understand. I wake up in the night sometimes wondering if any of it was ever real. I cannot share the story of this weekend together without my tainted hindsight point of view.

I entered the weekend with my love, none the wiser to his infidelity, with the goal to be more present than I ever had been. Every hug, every kiss, every sacred moment etched into my brain. I knew I had to part ways with my first love. I wanted to remember everything, from the way he said my name to the way his hand felt in mine. I watched as he slept, comforted in the familiar breathing patterns, the way his eyes fluttered awake, the way his heartbeat sounded when my head rested on his chest.

Meanwhile, I could barely sleep each night, knowing the countdown was on until Saturday’s inevitable unspoken breakup and the proceeding Sunday morning goodbye.

But I forgot all these concerns as soon as I saw his beautiful blue eyes after two very long months apart. I suddenly forgave all the miscommunications and red flags because I had romanticized him for so long in my mind.

Thursday morning wasn’t much of a beach day; we tried for a walk along the shore but were met with harsh wind whipping sand into our faces.

We were staying in the El Cabanyal beach neighborhood outside of the city center, so we headed in to explore. We walked around the beautiful city of palm trees, sunlight beaming through gusts of wind. We sat for a classic Agua de Valencia, which looks like a spritz but is more like a screwdriver. Next, we dipped into TIki Taco, because nothing’s better than a 1 euro taco and the best mango margarita you’ve ever had.

To perform our due diligence of getting some culture in, we entered the Catedral de Valencia, which happens to be where the Holy Grail is located. It’s believed to be the original Holy Chalice that Jesus used at the Last Supper. The church was gorgeous, the audio guide was a blur, the history was cool, and I was just happy to be with my love, no matter the activity. Silently in my mind I prayed for us while in this holy space. I prayed for the strength to do what I knew in my heart and for our well-being afterwards.

After exploring the city, we headed back to the beach to enjoy some authentically famous paella at La Pepina, a giant beachfront restaurant with rave reviews by Ernest Hemingway and various other famous historical figures. We sat on the terrace out back, ignoring the cold wisps of wind, finding solace in each other and our bottle of red wine.

The next morning, the weather was dreary for the beach yet again, so we headed back to the city. Brunch was at an entirely gluten-free spot where I had the best carrot cake for breakfast. Vacation is for comfort food and treats. An iced coffee and a chicken wrap fueled me further for a long bike ride through the park, stopping at the Valencia Museum of Arts and Science, the most famous spot in all of Valencia. The ice-blue fountains stretched in front of the rotund circular buildings housing museums and culture. At a tourist hotspot, we stopped for photos before heading back on our bikes. It’s funny, our first and last trips together included bike rides, and I am noticeably much better at it than the first go-around last June in Knokke. Proof that love changes you.

We had worked up a thirst only quenchable by yet another agua de Valencia, but this time on the Atenea Sky Rooftop. We scouted out places for dinner and he found a humble, quaint, adorable family-owned tapas restaurant in the center called Casa Vani. Candlelit with twinkle lights and only seating under 40 people, we felt lucky to get a spot with no reservation. The staff was warm and the food was incredible, not to mention the vermouth handmade by our server’s mother-in-law.

We had patatas bravas, meatballs, jamón-peach-balsamic salad, and garlic shrimp family style. The setting was so romantic we took photos of each other from across the table, ones that would unfortunately later end up on dating profiles. How sick it is to be in love.

The next day was the day I had been waiting for months, beach day. But I awoke in a panic, sensing the impending doom of breaking up with someone I was still very much in love with.

The UV was 7 and the sun was breaking through the clouds to provide 82 degrees of warmth. You would have thought I would have been more prepared with towels and sunscreen and beach stuff, but I had banked on there being sunbeds available for rent. Too early in the season.

Alternating between tanning and jumping in the ocean and getting a drink. We ended the day trying the Marina Beach Club. It was rowdy and full of old men and young women with everyone pretending to have fun. It was here I heard stories of the great Playa Padre beach club in Marbella, and now I can say I have been disappointed by both.

By the end of the fourth day, my hands shook and my lip quivered. I knew we were entering a tough conversation. One which didn’t have much backlash, I was relieved at the time, and looking back, I see he must have been too. It must be hard to fight a breakup when all you want is to put down the pressure of your guilt.

He poured two glasses of wine and we ate strawberries and jamón and chocolate-covered peanuts. The silence felt like a thick fog settling in the light on the brink of dusk. We had just showered the sand off after a long day in the sun. I had been waiting all day with a pit in my stomach knowing I was about to drop the other shoe. I couldn’t muster the courage to speak at full volume, so in a whisper I said, “I think we should break up.” And just like that, the rekindling of the last three months, and the love of nearly the last year, ended.

With tears falling down my cheeks, I felt like the bad guy. Sitting in front of the greatest pretender of all, pretending honesty, faking excuses, and expert-level gaslighting.

We sobbed and cried and loved one last time in the confusing span of an hour, and then, in a break of normalcy, went for pizza. I felt a strange relief and light-heartedness between us as we held hands and practically skipped to the restaurant. We ate by the beach and laughed and joked as if nothing had just happened. We seemed to be on the same page for the first time in months.

The kind of ease that makes it even harder to give up, even though the ease only came because we had given it up. It started to sprinkle on the way back. I was so distracted taking in the feeling of his fingers intertwined in mine, mesmerized by the flow of our bodies together, I barely noticed on the walk back. The sleep that night was restless as I counted down until 6 am when he had to leave for the airport. I was always alone for the hardest moments. It always seemed to come down to me, getting through our relationship alone. He left early, and I gave him the hand knit Belgium football jersey I had been holding on to since January.

At the time, I thought he deserved it just because I loved him. I see clearly now his love for me was not tangible. I sent him off through tears again, like every other time, each goodbye getting heavier and heavier, bogging me down, leaving me to clean up the Airbnb, to struggle to the train station and wait a dreaded hour before I could leave the cursed Airbnb we once shared. While 60 minutes may seem miniscule, the 3600 seconds I spent alone felt like a lifetime of solitude.

I knew what had to be done, I just never wanted to do it. There would never be a right time, and my gut was telling me I had to. Looking back, my intuition knew something I didn’t. I don’t know which truth is worse: that he loved me and betrayed me anyways or that he never loved me at all.

When we left, part of my heart was still ajar. The door has since been slammed shut by a force greater than I.