He Was Just Like His Coffee

It was his go-to.

The Flat White: looks simple, but it’s not. A tricky beverage, all about balance. The milk has to be just right. The foam, just enough. No more, no less. A matter of precision. And apparently, it said more about him than I could have imagined.

If you’re a coffee aficionado, this might speak to you. If not, you’ve probably crossed paths with this specific order at least once — complex, demanding, elegant, but easy to get wrong. Just like him.

Picture this: warm sun hitting a hidden gem on the southern Pacific coast of Mexico — colorful landscapes, tasteful flavors, smiling and relaxed people all around. That’s where I put down my backpack for four months, to change the scenery and recenter.

One evening, coming back from watching the sunset, I entered the bar of a friend and met a guy, with whom the conversation was flawless and pleasant. Slowly, we started dating, going from one adventure to another. Beaches, restaurants, open-air movie nights by the ocean, motorbike trips here and there, a weekend in a mountain cabin, exploring cities.

The connection was strong. Communication allowed vulnerability. The attraction was undeniable. Enough to bypass the red flags I may have foreseen.

When time to go our separate ways arose, we made a life bet. If I went back to Europe for a home trip as planned, then we’d meet up to write the next chapter of our story.

And well, I did. A few months later, we got back together for a 10-day trip in his country. 

A moment suspended, a romantic adventure for eyes, mind and heart believe me.

He was the kind who’d pull over on the side of the road without warning, make a coffee at the back of the car, just to pause and enjoy the spot. Hard not to fall for this way of life. As a curious and adventurous person, I felt like I’d found the right companion. One with the same amount of freedom, presence and touch of craziness. Until the sparks started to fade.

Just like his Flat White needed perfect balance, so did our relationship. And somewhere along the way, that balance tipped.

He was incredible on so many levels. At first, I saw a very creative, sensitive and charismatic person. The more I got to know him, the more his insecurities and wounds took the upper hand. My disillusion grew. He was older, which made me think we were on the same level of emotional maturity. Until I noticed demands that weren’t shared, silent expectations that slowly pushed me aside. And because on the other hand, he was kind, nurturing and very present, I accepted at my own expense.

Unconsciously, he knew. He spoiled me in a good way. I’d never been treated this way. We had amazing trips, went to amazing places fancy and not. But everything was according to his standards. 

Unbalanced. Just like a Flat White with too much foam: all show, no substance.

He made the best road trip around the UK crossing Somerset, Oxfordshire, Dorset areas. All along sleeping in a cosy rooftop tent, eating homemade meals in a teepee he had carefully prepared. Imagine: fire pit, fresh goods, quiet conversations in the calm summer of the English countryside. The next day, a Michelin-star dinner and sleepover in an old castle. Then a swim in the English Channel after hiking wild, colorful landscapes, ending the day with beers and pies at the only pub around, enjoying a rock concert. Dreamy, right? Full of adventures. I was beyond stars.

I left the country feeling like I’m falling in love, truly. So we planned to meet up promptly, where I live this time, Canada.

He landed one evening, I was so happy he made it. At that time, I was very busy with work, but having your person around is much more important. So I organized my schedule, planned a nature road trip across Quebec’s landscapes. And that’s when the the trouble began.

It wasn’t his way, even though I picked the kind of journey we both like. Suddenly, the man who made roadside coffee couldn’t sit still unless everything was his way. I realized he projected too much on our relationship, specifically me. As if I were his second wind.

And so, anything I would have done would be disappointing; expectations were high. The trip went in a sawtooth pattern. Back in Montreal, things got worse. I had plenty of work, he had plenty of wants and needs. I felt stirred up. We managed to get nice moments, but compared to the tension, it didn’t do the trick. And I saw something even more significant: my friends weren’t genuinely happy for me, but worried. This triggered something in me, I knew everything was going the wrong way. When the time to bring him back to the airport arrived, different emotions mixed, but mostly I was relieved.

Over the phone and texts, I told him this trip completely reshuffled the cards. I wasn’t sure of anything with him anymore. It was too intense, too unsteady, too broken. And so he came up with even bigger projects. 

He needed to escape something, and he was drowning me with him.

Despite my doubts, I accepted joining him in the UK for Christmas. Honestly, deep inside, I already knew it was the last round.

At St Pancras station, I met him in a fancy bar where he was waiting for me. Classy, in his very British look, smiling, warm. For a second, I was back home. And for a few days, I was.

There’s a French saying: “Chassez le naturel, il revient au galop”. Meaning: what’s forced never lasts. Tender, charismatic, careful; he is beautiful in his singularity, touching in his sensitivity. But so raw, he can’t see other sensibilities. That’s what made me feel suffocated. 

I wanted to love him from the first minute. Only what I had to offer wasn’t enough. Impulsive because alive, his wounds and insecurities were stronger than his will.

After a day in the vibrant London, we stayed for three days in an amazingly cozy cabin in the countryside. The place was stunning, a cocoon to reconnect. Sharing our visions and values, picturing our relationship a bright future. Three days of complete togetherness.

On our way to the next spot, a cottage in Wales, we made a one-night stop. He omitted to communicate his practical plans on the way, and as I couldn’t guess, I followed my own rhythm. It created misunderstanding and frustration. When trying to talk it out, he reacted. I felt unheard, unseen and rejected. When we reached the destination, we tried to get back on track. But I had touched something deeper than I thought. As the days passed, we couldn’t fix it. So I made a decision, the one to leave.

That cottage was gorgeous. It could’ve been magical. But that’s not what I’ll remember it for.

When I told him I was leaving, I tried to explain: if we couldn’t solve this now, how would we handle something harder? I made the decision for myself and for us. Despite the vulnerability, I knew it was the right thing. He wasn’t hearing it the same way as I was.

From one second to the next, he became accusing, detached, harsh. He wasn’t kind in any way anymore. I started to feel scared. I was in the middle of Wales, with a man I no longer recognized. That night wasn’t easy. I felt like I was holding my breath. In the morning, he dropped me on the sidewalk of a hotel miles from the station. Once I found a taxi to the nearest town, I finally let my tears flow. And I promised myself: I would never ignore my gut feeling again. Because from the very first moment, I knew something wasn’t right.

He called it love, but it was fear in costume.

I reflected a lot. Searched for my mistakes, wondered if I missed something that could have helped our relationship. I’m not perfect, and I have my part. Truth is, it wasn’t my job to heal his wounds. If I made one mistake, it was choosing myself over him. And that, perhaps, was the hardest for him to accept. Honestly, love isn’t about fixing but blooming.

Now, every Flat White I order holds a quiet echo of him and of everything I chose to let go. The perfect balance of milk and espresso reminds me of the equilibrium I sought but never found with him. Sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet, like the reminiscences.

A sip of memory.