Alejandro stood at the edge of Park Güell, looking out over Barcelona as the late afternoon sun turned the city golden. From this vantage point, he could see the spires of the Sagrada Família rising in the distance, the Mediterranean glittering beyond the jumble of buildings, and the serpentine bench that curved along the terrace behind him—Gaudí's whimsical creation covered in broken ceramics that somehow felt both chaotic and perfectly ordered.

  He and Donovan had come here together in July. They'd found a quiet spot near one of the viaducts, and Donovan had listened with that focused attention he always gave when Alejandro talked about architecture—not just politely listening, but actually engaging, asking questions, seeing what Alejandro saw in Gaudí's vision.

  "It looks like something from a fairy tale," Donovan had said, running his hand along one of the stone columns.

  "That's what Gaudí wanted," Alejandro had replied, pulling Donovan close. "He said there are no straight lines in nature, so why should we build with them?"

  The memory was so vivid that Alejandro could almost feel Donovan's presence beside him now. Almost.

  He checked his phone. Just past five in Barcelona, which meant eight in the morning in Washington. Donovan would be waking up soon, making coffee in that apartment he shared with his boyfriend—the one Alejandro tried not to think about but that lurked constantly at the edges of his consciousness.

  Three messages from Donovan sat unanswered. Funny observations about his Spanish class, a question about Alejandro's current project, a link to an article about Barcelona's architecture scene. Normal, friendly messages that carried an undercurrent of something more—at least to Alejandro. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  A group of American tourists walked past, their accent making his chest tighten. Not because it reminded him of Donovan specifically, but because it reminded him of that whole summer, of the version of himself he'd been when Donovan was here. Lighter, somehow. More hopeful.

  His phone buzzed—Miguel, asking if he wanted to meet for coffee before their evening studio session. Alejandro typed out a quick yes and started the walk down from Park Güell toward the metro.

  Miguel had been a good study partner—meticulous where Alejandro was conceptual, catching errors he overlooked in his enthusiasm for bigger design visions. Their waterfront redesign project was coming together well. But that was all it was. A good working relationship. Nothing more complicated than that, despite what Donovan's carefully casual questions about him might have implied.

  The metro was crowded. A couple stood near him, the woman leaning into the man's shoulder, laughing about something in Italian, perfectly comfortable in their casual intimacy. Alejandro looked away.

  The rational part of his brain—the part that sounded uncomfortably like his mother—kept insisting that he needed to move on. Donovan was thousands of miles away, in a committed relationship, building a life that didn't include Barcelona or Alejandro. Holding onto what they'd had was preventing him from being present for what could be possible now.

  But letting go felt impossible when Donovan was still so present in his daily life, still sending messages and photos, still video calling. It was like trying to heal from a wound that kept being reopened, never quite getting the distance needed to actually scar over.

  He emerged from the metro and walked toward the coffee shop. The evening air was mild, carrying the scent of the sea mixed with the distinctive Barcelona smell of old stone buildings warmed by sun. This was his city. His life. And he was walking through it like a ghost, only half-present, always waiting for a notification from across an ocean.

  His phone buzzed. Another message from Donovan—a photo of terrible coffee from a campus vending machine, captioned "This is what I get for oversleeping. Miss real Spanish coffee."

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Alejandro smiled despite himself, then felt it fade as he looked closer. In the reflection of the vending machine's glass, he could see someone else in the background—presumably Tyler. The boyfriend. The real relationship. The person who got to actually be there, to share coffee and classes and all the ordinary moments that Alejandro experienced only through screens.

  Miguel was already at the café when Alejandro arrived, two espressos on the table, laptop open. They worked for thirty minutes on their project, Miguel entirely focused—pointing out calculation adjustments, suggesting cost-effective improvements. It was productive, uncomplicated by anything beyond mutual respect and shared academic goals.

  "I think we're in good shape," Miguel said finally. "Want to grab dinner before heading to studio?"

  "Can't tonight," Alejandro said. "I need to finish renderings for my other project. Rain check?"

  "Sure. Next week." Miguel headed out with a casual goodbye.

  After Miguel left, Alejandro stayed at the café, staring at his phone. He pulled up his conversation thread with Donovan, scrolling through weeks of messages. Hundreds of them—little observations, shared jokes, photos of architecture, late-night conversations that stretched into early morning hours for one of them.

  It was a friendship, yes. But it was also more than that, at least for Alejandro. Every message was threaded through with longing, with the memory of what they'd had, with the hope—irrational, impossible—that somehow circumstances would change.

  But circumstances weren't changing. Donovan and Tyler were making plans for Seattle. And Alejandro was here in Barcelona, supposed to be finishing his degree, but instead spending his emotional energy on someone who couldn't actually be with him.

  He started typing a message, then deleted it. Started again. Deleted again.

  What did he even want to say? All of it felt too heavy, too demanding, too honest about feelings that maybe Donovan didn't even share anymore. Maybe for Donovan, their summer had been exactly what it was supposed to be—a beautiful, intense, time-limited experience that you treasure but don't extend beyond its natural lifespan.

  Maybe Alejandro was the only one still holding on.

  Professor Ferrer had pulled him aside last week. "Your work is still good," he'd said in his characteristically blunt way, "but you seem distracted. Whatever is taking your focus—sort it out before your final semester. You have talent, Vega, but talent without focus is just wasted potential."

  The conversation had stung because it was true. Alejandro had been distracted, letting his work slide just enough to be noticeable. Staying up too late for video calls with Donovan, spending too much time composing perfect responses, letting himself get pulled into long text conversations when he should have been working.

  He'd been operating at half measures for months, divided between his present life and his lingering connection to a summer that had ended. The result was that he was fully present nowhere, serving no one—not himself, not his studies, and certainly not Donovan, who deserved either a real relationship or a clean break.

  Finally, he typed out a simple message: "Hope your coffee situation improved. Busy week ahead with projects. Might be slower to respond for a while."

  It wasn't cutting contact. It wasn't even really pulling back. But it was a small step toward protecting himself, toward acknowledging that this constant connection—however wonderful it felt—was keeping him from being fully present in his actual life.

  He hit send before he could overthink it. Two major projects due in the next three weeks, his thesis proposal to finalize. He had plenty to legitimately be busy with. And maybe if he threw himself into his work, into his real life here in Barcelona, the constant ache of Donovan's absence would eventually fade to something manageable.

  As he gathered his things and headed out into the cooling Barcelona evening, Alejandro made a decision. He wouldn't delete Donovan's messages or cut off contact completely—he wasn't strong enough for that. But he would create some distance. Respond less frequently, keep conversations lighter, stop staying up until 2 AM for video calls that left him feeling both happy and hollow.

  The walk back to his apartment took him through the Gothic Quarter, past narrow medieval streets where he and Donovan had gotten lost trying to find a particular restaurant. Every corner of this city held memories of that summer. But the city was here, solid and present and real. And Donovan was not.

  It was time to start living in the city that was actually around him, rather than the memory of the summer that had passed.

  He pulled out his phone one more time, looking at Donovan's latest message—something about a PR campaign and farmers markets. He didn't respond. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.

  One step at a time toward letting go, even if he wasn't quite ready to release his grip entirely.

  Maybe some distance would help both of us, he thought, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed it.