She looked at him with no hesitation. Her hair still wet stuck on her forehead, a pint-sized souvenir of the fluffy clouds outside. He was sitting on the sofa, crouched in his crumpled suit.
Just the day before they were on the sandy seaside in Formentera. 32 degrees Celsius. Then the night. The sweet text message. Bittersweet, for her, to say the least. However too clear to give space for apologies.

“I think we have to break up”

He agreed with a hint of the head.