A love story.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” he says, frowning and refusing to look at me. The situation hurt, but it hurt more that he didn’t even try to properly break up with me. I stare at the croissant sitting peacefully on my plate, free from relationship problems. I wanted to take all my anger out on it, to crush it between my hands. I had guessed he either wanted to propose or do something else significant because, in our three-year relationship, Femi had never picked me up and taken me to a café for breakfast.

“Babe,” he says when I don’t respond.

“Babe?” I retort bitterly.

“I’m sorry….., Do you want me to drop you off?” he asks.

That’s it? “It’s not you, it’s me?” I think again.

I replay the statement in my head over and over. I haven’t been in the dating scene for a while, but I’m sure people have better break-up lines now. Maybe he didn’t know either because he’s been out of the game for a while.

“Yes, please,” I answer, picking up my bag, ready to leave.

He looks at me, then at my plate. “Do you want that packed?” he asks, eyeing my lone croissant.

I look down at it. “Yeah, sure.”

I leave the café and wait outside while he sorts it out. Standing next to his car, my mind races through the last three years. We were good together, and everyone expected us to get married. How was I going to explain this to everyone? I even quoted a tweet that said, “Speak your marriage into existence.” I was supposed to be engaged in two months, according to my response to that tweet.

The sound of the car doors unlocking brings me back to reality, and I get in. He gets in after me and hands me the packed croissant. I take it, making sure our fingers touch in some electric way like in the movies. Maybe it would spark something in him, make him realize we’re meant to be together.

“I need that back,” he says, staring at me. I look down and realize he’s talking about his cardigan.

This isn’t what happens after your fingers touch in the movies.

I stare at him, confused.

“I’m joking,” he laughs and starts the car.

I look away, even more confused. Are we supposed to be best friends now? I’ve never been this bewildered in my life.

“Take good care of my cardigan,” Femi says as I get out of the car. I offer him a small smile, and my ears pick up his quiet “I’ll always love you” as I walk away.

I place the croissant on my kitchen cabinet and go into my room to replay the last hour. I pull off his cardigan, fold it neatly beside my pillow, and lie down on the bed. I stare into space and start my replay.

Femi broke up with me after three years because “it’s him, not me”? It would have made more sense if it were me.

My phone rings, snapping me back to reality. I put it on speaker.

“Hello,” I say to my best friend over the phone.

“Girl! I just saw your man with his lips all over some girl!” her voice pierces through the phone.

I frown. “Which man?” I ask solemnly.

“Femi!” she screams.

I let out a sigh of relief. I wasn’t about to lose two relationships in one day.

I stare at his cardigan on the bed and smile.

“We broke up,” I say.

“Oh… Wait, what? Why?” she stutters.

“It was him, not me,” I respond as the sound of my doorbell reminds me that my boyfriend was visiting.