He kissed my forehead. We lay there, in the gravel in a park in London as the sun came up. Being kissed on the forehead always seemed patronizing to me. But this one came at the right moment. 

I did not cry. At first. I hung up the phone in our poorly lit cockroach hotel in Rome and didn't know what to do. This was the logical thing to do. We weren't going to see each other again. Why would I be in a relationship with someone I wasn't going to see again. 
 I joked that Rome was the best city for me to be dumped in. Pasta and wine. Comfort foods. 
It wasn't until Florence that I realized what had happened. 
We stood on at bridge and the sun was setting. I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want to talk about it. But I had to. So we did. I allowed myself to be sad about it in Florence. But as soon as we got off of that train I couldn't think about it anymore. I was in Europe. There's no point to being heart broken in Europe. 

I realize now it will be good for me to not be with someone for awhile. 
I need to be with myself. 

Because the main thing I realized about myself on this trip is that I'm pretty sure I'm capable of falling in love with any one now. And if I'm not careful I'll be the window girl for the rest of myself, only associated with other people. 
And I don't want that. 
I want to be associated with myself.