I’m getting ready in the bathroom. Olivia isn’t home tonight—she’s out with the girls—and I’m glad because I’m not sure she would approve of this. I saw a photoshoot in the latest Vogue magazine she left on the coffee table the other day. The man in the photoshoot had makeup on, and I thought it was beautiful, so I decided to try and make something similar tonight, though I’m trying to achieve a more subtle look.

There was some makeup in my basket in the bathroom, and I seem to be good at it, so I don’t think I’m doing this for the first time. But I can feel in my gut she doesn’t like it. My phone vibrates and almost falls from the edge of the sink. I check it and see it’s a text from Minho. I open it carefully.

‘I won’t be able to make it tonight. I’m sorry.’

My heart drops. I was so excited about going to the cinema with him tonight. I haven’t been able to see him again after the party at my place, and the prospect of meeting him without everybody else was even more appealing. I remember he arrived late last time. Is changing plans at the last minute something he often does? I decide to call him. If we can’t meet, we could at least talk. I put my earbuds in while I wait for him to answer. There are a few rings before he does.

“Hey,” he simply says and I can feel he’s truly sorry.

“Hey, Minho,” I answer. “What’s going on?” I decide to ask directly. Let’s not waste time with small talk.

“It’s just—” he starts but his voice gets stuck in his throat. “I’m really not in the mood for a movie,” he finally says. I don’t know what to answer. I think I understand not being in the mood. I’ve been not in the mood a lot recently.

“Does it have something to do with you coming alone at the party a few weeks ago?” I ask carefully. I put some mascara on, listening to the silence. I can only hear him breathe on the other side of the line.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “We kind of broke up, like, twenty minutes ago. I think.” His voice is weak. I swallow heavily. I hate knowing he’s feeling bad. I just want him to be happy.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. I won’t lie, I’m eager to learn more about him. Even the sad stuff. But I also want him to know he can trust me and confide in me.

“Yeah, ok,” he says, voice shaky. My makeup is finished and even if no one is going to see it in the end, I’m still proud of myself. I leave the bathroom, grab the pack of cigarettes on the counter and go towards the patio.

“So, what happened?” I start. “Did you leave her, or did she leave you?” I ask. I take one cigarette out of the pack and light it up, waiting for him to answer.

“Hum, well—” he clears his throat. “It’s ‘him’ actually. As in, ‘did you leave him or did he leave you’. And, hum—he left me, basically,” he explains and I have to refrain from choking.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I had not seen that one coming. I don’t know why it makes my heart race, learning that he has—had—a boyfriend, but it makes me feel warm inside.

“I think I had it coming. It’s my fault,” he continues. “He wanted something serious and I didn’t. Well, I want to, it’s just that I don’t think I’m in the right mental state right now. Do you get it?” he asks. I get it more than he thinks, it seems. I brea