On the morning we broke up, Boston finally saw sunshine again.

Light streamed through the blinds into the kitchen, striping the wooden table.

When Sebastian left the bedroom, he smelled eggs and freshly ground coffee.

A carefully prepared breakfast for two waited on the table: soft eggs, toasted bread, warm milk, even a little plate of neatly sliced avocado.

Wearing my apron, I brought over his black coffee without a word.

His brow tightened at the flesh-colored dressing around my wrist.

“You're injured. You should rest instead of making breakfast.”

I smiled and arranged the cutlery. “It's fine. This is the last one.”

Perhaps he noticed something was wrong. He looked at me a little longer than usual.

But he said nothing, only pulled out a chair and began eating.

As always, the food was exactly to his taste: lightly seasoned, low in salt, at the right temperature.

He set down his cup and, unusually, offered a compliment without prompting.

“Breakfast is good.”

For a man so reluctant to express feeling, it was a considerable gesture of goodwill.

I paused while collecting the plates.

“I'm glad you like it.”

I took the dishes to the sink and rinsed them.

Once, that compliment would have made me beam and reach for him.

Now I didn't use it as an opening to explain how hurt I was.

After washing my hands, I removed my apron, folded it neatly, and left it on the counter.

Then I turned.

From ten feet away, I calmly watched him adjusting his tie.

“Sebastian, let's break up.”

His long fingers stopped in midair.

A deathly silence filled the apartment.

He stared at me, his throat moving, his low voice strained.

“Because of the arguments these last few days? Or because I couldn't take you to the hospital yesterday?”

I shook my head.

“We've been together two years. I've tried to fit into your schedule, follow your rules, understand your work. I even convinced myself your indifference was rationality.”

“But I'm not as strong as I thought. I'm tired. I don't want to keep chasing you.”

His hands suddenly clenched.

“Have you thought this through?”

Years of pride and restraint had taught him to suppress every impulse.

He believed begging someone to stay was a shabby form of emotional coercion.

If she was unhappy, letting her go was the last dignity and greatest respect he could offer.

I smiled. “I'm sure.”

“You're free, Dr. Hale. You won't have to worry about me pestering you at the hospital anymore.”

He stood silent for half a minute, then nodded.

“All right.”

He went to the entrance to put on his shoes.

But when he opened the door, he stopped with his back to me.

“If you want time apart to cool down, I'll give you space. You don't have to move out. You can stay here.”

“There's a major international cardiac surgery symposium at the hospital. I won't be home for the next few days.”

The door shut.

Standing in the bright sunshine, I laughed at myself.

Then the laughter turned to tears.

To Sebastian, my breakup seemed like another tantrum.

But I truly was exhausted.

Downstairs, Sebastian didn't drive straight to the hospital.

He got into his car and looked up at the lit window high above.

He smoked three cigarettes.

Only when heavy clouds blotted out the morning sun did he start the engine, his face blank.