“We’re out of milk, again?” I said, motioning to the empty box of milk.

“It’s over,” she said abruptly.

Without saying a word, to avoid an unnecessary argument so early in the morning I quickly reached for my car keys across the table, ready to head to the corner shop to buy more milk. I got up from the breakfast table, took off my slippers and went outside. I got to my white polo vivo and sat down. There it hit me. She said it was over. Milk can only be ‘finished’ and not ‘over’. She said it was over. I got up and headed back inside the house, and there she was still seated at the breakfast table, unmoved.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s over. Our relationship is over,” she said taking a sip of her black, and abnormally strong coffee.

I couldn’t believe my ears, surely she was joking. After all she did have a sense of humour drier than the Kalahari, and this was one of her untimely jokes to get a reaction from me. It had to be. How else would I explain being dumped at the breakfast table the morning of my birthday?

“Please pass the sugar’’ she said, sheepishly

“Would you like some toast with that?” I asked

“We’re out of milk, again?” I said, motioning to the empty box of milk.

 I’m sitting here with an unusually depressed bowl of cereal desperately in need of milk, replaying the conversations of this morning and nothing was out of place. The sun was out, birds were chirping and our next door neighbour was yelling at her mischievous cat. Everything was as it should be. This is how all our mornings played out. I was having breakfast with her.

Her, the love of my youth. The only difference was that unlike other years, this year she forgot to get me a birthday gift, not that I minded because waking up next to her, laughing at her dry jokes, painting, baking and play fighting with her were all gifts I wanted.

Hours had passed, she’d packed her bags and left and there I was still staring at my dry bowl of cereal wondering how I could have missed this?

“Should I leave the pot plant behind?” she asked.

“No, it is yours after all. Take it with.” I said in annoyance.

How could I have been so blind and such a bad judge of character? We’d been together for three years and she’d promised that today, she’d finally be coming out and introducing me to her friends as her fiancé instead of friend.

I’ve always been openly queer and my family’s acceptance of me is what made it easier for me to live my truth. I love her, last year, next week and five years from now. I love her, but I knew that it wasn’t my place to force her to come out of the ‘closet’ if she was not yet ready. I was however excited, to finally be claimed by her, in public as much as she claims me indoors. I was excited, that I’d finally get to hold her hand whenever I wanted, in front of anyone, and unapologetically steal a kiss or two.

I currently have no tears. I’m sitting here waiting for her to come back and perhaps tell me it was a prank of some sort, that she was joking and that there’s no way that she’s chosen ‘the closet’ over me. Over the plans we had together, the road trips and places we still had to visit after lock down. All she has to do is come back, and I will believe her. I will believe her should she walk in and tell me that I did not judge her incorrectly, that I was right when I thought she was an amazing person, my peaches and cream, my champagne in a tall glass who loved me as strongly as I did her. I will believe her should she say I was right to think that she’d choose me, because she’d be standing in front of my eyes back to do so.