Foreign Affairs Vol. 2 (Part VI): The Cloudy Sunset

I don't kiss my friends.

I couldn’t sleep.

At 3:30 a.m., I gave up trying.
My brain wouldn’t quiet.
My chest was tight.
My gut buzzed with a warning I didn’t want to hear.

So I queued up an episode of Law & Order: SVU—
the show he and I had bonded over,
now a strange kind of comfort.

Watching it, knowing I’d never joke with him about it again, hurt.
So I got up.
Threw on an old pair of leggings.
And walked—fast, breathless, headphones in—
straight to the Acropolis.

I watched the sky open over the city.
Let the cool air sting my skin.
Tried to outrun whatever this feeling was.

When I wake up that early, it usually means something’s off.
I never know exactly what—just that something is about to break.

---

That morning, I tried to shake it.
Saw the sunrise. Got my coffee.
Chatted with my favorite shop owners—the ones who felt like chosen family.
I got ready. Went to school. Showed up like everything was normal.

And there he was.
The Brit.
Warm. Attentive. Still himself.

Until she showed up.

The same girl from the day before.
Half-Greek. Half-German.
The one I told myself not to worry about.

She was dressed up.
Intentional.
And this time, she moved with purpose.

I watched from a distance—her smile, his openness.
Even though his body language stayed neutral, it gutted me.

I tried to let it go.
Tried to remind myself: this wasn’t mine to hold.

But I cracked.

---

On our break, we walked together—like always.
And the words just slipped out.

“I think that girl fancies you.”

He shrugged.
“Is that not allowed?”

“Of course it is. I just… didn’t realize how much it would bother me.”

He looked at me. Unreadable.
“I guess I need to make more friends, since you kind of monopolize my time.”

Ouch.

I tried to keep it light.
“Well, I’m glad to be one of your friends in Athens, then.”

“You’re my only friend in Athens.”

That should’ve meant something.
Instead, it stung.

It didn’t feel like intimacy.
It felt like a ceiling.
Like he had already decided what this was.
And I was just catching up.

---

I panicked.
Blurted something out. Messy. Too honest:

“I didn’t come here for this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

He just looked at me.
“Okay. I know.”

We walked back to class.

Afterward, I could feel it—
he wanted to say something.

I was chatting with a couple of friends when he came over.

“Hey… are you alright? Are we alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”
I lied.

He nodded, then softened.
“Call me later, yeah? We’ll talk. Go for a coffee or something.
Take a nap—call me after.”

And just like that, a flicker of hope returned.
He wanted to talk.
He wanted to see me.
Maybe this wasn’t unraveling after all.
Maybe he was still in it.

Still there.

---

That night, I texted. Asked if he wanted to go for a walk.
No response.

I told myself he probably needed space. Maybe he was tired.
Maybe I hadn’t ruined everything.

Later, I had dinner with another American classmate. I told her:
“One of two things happened. He either really needed time alone… or he went out with her.”

She was certain it was the first one.
“He seems so into you. I don’t think he’s interested in anyone else.”

---

The next day:

“Hey, sorry I didn’t respond last night.”

“No worries…”

“Did you have a good night?”

“Yeah, what did you get into?”

Pause.

“Well Anna… I don’t want to upset you…”

Worst-case scenario confirmed.
He went out with her.
The one he told me not to worry about.

I gathered my things, walked into class, and tried to act like I was fine.

Later, I excused myself.
Because I wasn’t.

I couldn’t stop the tears.
I felt gutted.
Hurt.
Stupid.

Of course he went out with her.
Who would want me over a girl like that?

My old insecurities surged, so I did what I knew I needed to:
I said something.

I told him I felt misled.

He said:
“Oh. I thought we were just friends. Sorry I mishandled it.”

So I said—
in Greek:
Δεν φιλάω τους φίλους μου.
I don’t kiss my friends.

He didn’t respond.
He never will.

That was it.
No closure.
No conversation.
Just a slow dissolve into silence.

I had one more day of class with him.
Then I’d never have to see him again.

And I was done waiting.

So I said yes to someone else.
Someone I’d put on pause while The Brit took up all my space.

Vespa Guy.
City lights. Sharp jawline. Greek god vibes?
“Come to Santorini and I’ll take care of you” energy.

Maybe I should’ve been more cautious.
But I was tired of shrinking.
Tired of second-guessing.

So I booked the flight.
Sent the details.
Packed my bags.

If he wanted me in Santorini, I’d go.

But I wasn’t going for him.

I was going because something in me was done
—so done—
waiting to be fully chosen.

---

You ever try to outrun heartbreak and end up booking a flight instead?
Yeah. Me too.

Drop a comment—
or send this to the friend who needs to stop texting the boy who says “sorry if that was unclear.”

---

And in case you’re wondering… yes. I went to Santorini.
Yes, Vespa Guy was waiting.
Or at least, I thought he would be.

→ Part 3 drops July 17: The Santorini Situation.